


Breathless

by AcrobatElle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Heart-Sharing, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6038680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcrobatElle/pseuds/AcrobatElle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma and Killian share more than just a heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They don’t really talk about it their first night home. They don’t need to; it’s simply _there_ , thrumming under their skin and pulsing through their veins.

Emma hasn’t had a chance to stop and dwell on it until now. Of course it wasn’t as simple as splitting her heart and getting the hell out of the Underworld -- nothing in her life is _ever_ simple, it seems -- but when the front door closes with a too-loud click behind them and they’re alone in their home for the first time as themselves, no curses in the way, just the two of them standing in the entryway with their fingers linked together... it’s the first time she can truly feel it.

She knows he does too, if the look of mild curiosity on his face is anything to go by. He takes a steadying breath and looks down at their joined hands with something akin to awe. She can feel the pulse of their heartbeats under his palm, perfectly synchronized.

“Oh,” she says, barely audible over the steady _thump-thump_ rushing in her ears, suddenly so loud in this quiet space.

He doesn’t say anything, just brushes his thumb over her knuckles, and she nearly gasps at the swell of affection that surges through her, a rush of warmth that burns in her cheeks and spreads all the way down to the tips of her toes. It’s the same as when his arms are wrapped around her, as when he presses his face into the crook of her neck and breathes her in, and she _does_ gasp when she realizes the feeling is coming from _him_.

God, is this what he feels whenever he looks at her?

She gets her answer when she meets his eyes and sees the softness there, a gentle smile playing at his lips.

She responds with a smile of her own, lacing her fingers tightly with his.

It overwhelms her sometimes, how much she loves him. It’s a knot in her stomach, a tightness in her chest that threatens to suffocate her until it relaxes into a languid, easy heat the longer she looks at him. It’s how it always is with him, her heart threatening to burst while he brings her down, letting the emotion settle into something warm and comfortable and beautiful.

His eyes widen and his exhale is sharp, and Emma bites her lip as she studies his face. It’s mutual, whatever connection they’re sharing, and she doesn’t care if it’s their shared heart or her magic making it happen. She gets to watch as it washes over him; even a few weeks ago this would have frightened her, but not now, not when she can see his sheer astonishment, his eyes lighting up as she squeezes his hand and lets him feel _everything_.

“Oh,” he whispers, and she steps in closer, taking his face in her free hand. He sighs and turns into it, his eyes drifting closed as he presses his lips to her palm.

“Yeah,” she says, a tremor in her voice.

His arms surround her then, his warmth and his love (more tangible now than ever) sending sparks across her skin. She shudders and melts into him, his breath hot against her forehead as they sway together, too overwhelmed to keep completely still.

“I -- I didn’t know,” he whispers into her hair.

She smiles into his collarbone. “Yes, you did.”

He chuckles, his hand pressing into the small of her back. “Aye, I suppose I did. But it’s one thing to know it and another to…” he drifts off, pulling her in even tighter.

“To feel it,” she finishes.

She presses her ear to his chest, an entirely unnecessary action as she can hear and feel his ( _her_ ) heart beating just a surely as her own. But it’s amplified like this, a soothing rhythm that gradually slows as they settle into each other, their breaths calming and falling into sync.

Emma finally pulls back, just enough to look into Killian’s eyes. He smiles and presses a kiss to her forehead, and just as she can feel his love flowing through her there’s also relief there, an overwhelming sense of _finally_ now that they’re here, alive and happy and _done_ in the home he chose for them.

Another feeling that, even a short time ago, would have terrified her. Now it calms her.

She can also feel his exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that seeps into her and makes her heart constrict. She may have gone to hell and back to bring him home but he went there the hard way, three times now, each time for _her_. It makes her throat catch and her eyes burn, and she just wants to --

He grabs her hand, feeling her distress. “When was the last time you slept, love?”

“I…” it only hits her then, how long it’s been. She got no rest after the darkness left her, throwing herself headlong into the rescue mission and there was no sleep to be had in the Underworld. It can’t possibly be  -- “not since before Camelot.”

His forehead finds hers. “Please tell me there’s a bed upstairs.”

She laughs, a short, harsh sound. “Yeah.” Never-used, obviously. “A huge, comfortable bed with down pillows and -- “

He cuts her off with his lips against hers, and as chaste as it is his kiss has _never_ felt like this, not with their twin heartbeats thundering in her ears and his love pressed into her skin.

She hums against his mouth before pulling away. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.”

His stubble scratches along her cheek. “As long as you’re there with me.”

* * *

 

Emma wakes slowly, shrouded in the comfort of the too-large bed that only felt right because Killian was in it with her. They didn’t last long once they’d changed and climbed in, sinking into the softness of the mattress and snuggling up close, unable to go without touching each other for more than a few moments at a time. She’d drifted off with her forehead pressed to his, his blue eyes the last thing she saw before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

As her eyes blink open she sees that he is decidedly _not_ there with her, but it doesn’t inspire the panic or worry that it might have. Not when she can feel his heart beating so close by.

Just downstairs, in fact.

She smiles into her pillow and reaches across to his side of the bed, finding it still warm. He couldn’t have been up for long, and she peers over to the clock on the nightstand. 11:03 a.m.

They’d slept for nearly 14 hours straight.

She feels unbearably light, rested and easy and _content_ in a way she’s never experienced. There’s nothing to do, no one to save, just a house to turn into a home.

She shuffles downstairs, still not fully awake when she finds him in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffeemaker.

She stands back and leans against the door frame, content to just watch him. He looks _good_ , dressed in a dark henley and loose sweatpants (he’d seemed so surprised when she presented him with the clothing the night before, but even when consumed with the darkness she knew he’d need more clothes and filled the closets accordingly), messy hair falling over his forehead as he gets the machine working. She’d shown him how to operate the one in the sheriff’s station and he seems to have figured this one out just as quickly. She can’t hold in her chuckle at his proud little smile.

His smile grows wider at the sound, but he doesn’t look at her at first. “I know you’ve been watching me.”

“Was I that obvious?”

He turns to face her, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, raising a playful eyebrow. His hand is bare, rings gone, and he’s not wearing his hook or brace. “You don’t need to be, anymore. I could feel it the moment you woke up.” His face softens. “Good morning, love.”

She crosses the distance and leans into him, his blunted arm sliding against her back as she presses her lips to his. “Morning.”

She lingers against his mouth, breathing him in, and his hand floats across her collarbone before settling directly over her heart, his palm flattening against her skin and setting her nerves on fire.

“What _is_ this?” he asks, a note of wonder in his voice. “I didn’t think -- I didn’t think it would be like this.“

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps we could ask your parents,” he muses, his thumb tracing delicate circles at the hollow of her throat. “It seems they would be the experts.”

She shakes her head. “I asked my mom about it before. What it felt like, to share a heart. She talked about feeling closer to Dad, but nothing this intense.“ Emma laughs to herself. “She’s a terrible liar. If this is how it felt for her, she would have blushed and stammered and changed the subject.”

“Something to do with your magic, then?”

“Probably? I dunno. I didn’t expect… I don’t know. It’s a lot.”

“...too much?” She can hear the hesitance in his voice, can _feel_ it coursing through his veins.

Her jaw tightens and she pulls him closer, suddenly, blindingly angry, utterly _furious_ at the life that’s done this to him. Anger at his father, at Rumplestilstkin, at Pan, at herself, at _anyone_ who ever let this man think he isn’t worthy of love, that he isn’t _enough_. That even after last night he’s still so unsure.

“No,” she whispers, and she takes his face in her hands and looks into his eyes and she _pushes_ , uses her magic with everything she has in her, to make him feel it, to make him _understand_.

It’s breathtaking, watching the emotions flit over his face, and she vows to make him feel it every goddamned day of their lives if that’s what it takes to make him at ease in his own skin.

“Do you see?” she asks, her eyes never leaving his.

“Aye.” His reply is shaky and his eyes a little watery, but his calm acceptance settles into her bones. It’s so quiet in this little corner of the kitchen, save for the hammering of their hearts and the faint hum of brewing coffee. Emma basks in it, holding Killian’s gaze while he steadies himself.

His hand slides over hers, pulling it from his face as he laces their fingers together. “Warn a man next time you do that, love,” he chuckles. “That’s a lot to take in early in the morning.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“You know what I mean.”

She fights a smile, letting him have his bravado for the moment. “Too much?” she teases.

He grins. “Never.” He leans in close, his breath mingling with hers and his lips brushing against her tantalizingly as he speaks. “I like it,” he confesses, dropping his head to nuzzle at her jawline. “Feeling what you feel for me.”

An intimate admission shouldn’t feel this electric, but there’s a hint of his tongue at the shell of her ear and she is _gone_. “Yeah?” The word is breathy and high-pitched, trailing off as he presses his lips to her neck.

“Yeah,” he agrees, mouth closing over her pulse point for an agonizing second, just a hint of a tease before he drifts down further. “I wonder…” he murmurs against her skin, and she’s clutching at his back now, one hand sliding up into his hair to hold him in place.

“Wonder what?”

“I wonder if our… connection may extend to other activities.” He punctuates his words by closing his lips over the little nook where her neck meets her shoulder, with just a hint of teeth.

Her hand tightens in his hair. “Killian?”

He hardly seems to hear her, too invested in marking her skin and turning her bones to water. “Hmm?”

She yanks harder on his hair and he pulls away from her skin with an obnoxious little _pop_ of his lips, his eyes clouded over as she forces him to look at her.

“Forget about the damn coffee.”

* * *

 

She half-expects him to take her right there on the kitchen table, or at the very least throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the bedroom. But he’s surprisingly subdued, allowing her to take his hand and lead him upstairs.

He shuts the door behind them and turns to face her, stepping in close and nuzzling at her cheek, and she suddenly understands why. The unchecked _want_ she’d felt flowing through him downstairs is tempered now, held down with tenderness and anticipation and love (always love, humming in the background and keeping them steady).

There’ll be plenty of time for quick and dirty later. Right now she wants to savor this.

His kiss is soft and easy but it takes her breath away with how it ignites her, makes her want to press closer and crawl inside. The same kiss in Camelot would have settled her but now, God _now_ , with their hearts moving in tandem and their emotions shared on the same live wire, raw and open and ragged around the edges, it burns. It burns like in Neverland but so much _more_ , and she’s lost to it when his tongue sweeps over hers.

Every time, it’s like their first kiss all over again.

She lets him walk her to the edge of the bed but stops him before he can push her down onto it, turning him gently by the shoulders until the back of his thighs are pressed against the mattress.

“What’s this, then?” he asks as she leans in to nip at his lips.

“You wondered,” Emma murmurs, dragging her mouth over his stubble and sliding her hands under his shirt, her nails scratching at the small of his back. “Let’s find out.”

It’s been too long since they’ve done this, she thinks as she slowly drags his shirt over his head, enjoying his contented little hum as she presses her thumbs to his hips and mouths at his collarbone. Not since her tiny bed in the loft, scrambling to make herself presentable before meeting everyone at Granny’s, just before she --

_Before._

“Where’d you go, love?” His words are soft, his hand playing in her hair.

She chuckles to herself and presses her nose to his chest, breathing deep. “Sorry. I just missed this.” She finds his lips with her own, pressing against him until he follows her lead and sits on the bed, scooting back far enough to let her straddle his thighs.

He lets her do what she likes, his hand squeezing her hip as she tilts his head just so, sweeping into his mouth and tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth. He’s pliant and relaxed underneath her save for the growing hardness she can feel pressing between her legs. She pushes her hips down, grinding against him and letting him take her full weight, and he moans deliciously into her mouth.

Emma can nearly taste the sound on his tongue. She rolls her hips just to hear it again and is rewarded with a deep-seated groan that trails off into a heavy, pleased sigh.

“Can you feel it, Emma?” he murmurs against her lips, his hips twitching beneath hers.

His question isn’t just idle pillow talk. Just as she can feel the physical evidence of his arousal and see it in his darkened eyes, she can… well, _feel_ it just as if he were the one pressing down into her, a gentle humming against her nerves and an extra knot in her stomach just begging to be unraveled. It doesn’t overwhelm her own arousal but teases at it, extra kindling on the fire.

She gives his hair a light tug, forcing him to look into her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she grinds down against him once more. His breath stutters and they shiver in tandem, the heat pooling in her legs far more intense than it should be given that they’re working between two layers of clothing.

“Yeah,” she whispers, capturing his mouth and delighting in the way he just lets himself be _taken_. He’s never like this in bed, always eager to be an active participant if not in outright control. But now he’s loose and easy underneath her, letting her tilt his head back and suck at his pulse point.

She suspects it won’t last long, his hazy compliance likely brought on by the headiness of their connection (which, it seems, does indeed extend to _other activities_ ) and the sheer novelty of it, and Emma damn well plans on taking advantage.

“Yeah, I feel it.” She grips his chin and nips at his mouth. “Lie back, captain.”

He goes instantly, sliding back to the center of the bed and grinning when Emma climbs over him, pressing his head back into the pillows with her kiss and pinning his shoulders to the mattress.

His hand slides under her tank top, pushing it up her back and leaving a tantalizing little trail of goosebumps as he goes. “How about some parity, love?” he asks, continuing to lift the offending garment.

“Not yet,” she mouths into his skin, pressing just a bit harder on his shoulders to get her point across. “Lie back and don’t move.”

He can’t even protest before she’s sliding down, raking her fingers across his abdomen and sucking a mark into his collarbone. She looks up long enough to give him a wicked little grin before leaning back down, her hands and lips weaving mindless little trails across his torso. She could devour him like this, gorgeous and sprawled out for her against the sheets.

She settles for the occasional nip at his skin and lazily works her way down. He’s done this for her before, worshipping every inch of her body and wrenching every possible sound he could from her throat, but never let her get that far when she attempted to do the same. She smiles at each little hitch in his breath, and every time he moans she swears the sound actually runs _through_ her, vibrating under her skin and settling between her thighs.

She’s nosing along his hip bones, biting at the little dents that disappear under the waistband of his pants, when his hand finds her hair, his thumb brushing across her temple. Emma looks up at him and can’t help but grin at the state of him, eyes blown wide and his torso covered in red marks that should fade to purple in the next few hours.

“Love, you don’t have to -- “

“Shhh.” Emma cuts him off, sliding her hands under his hips and encouraging him to lift up, just enough so she can slide his pants off, her fingers dragging down his legs as she tosses them aside. Of course he wore nothing underneath -- she sits back for a moment and admires the view, all lean, taut muscles and dark hair. “I told you. Lie back and don’t move.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement at her tone but doesn’t budge, save for the rise and fall of his chest and his tongue darting across his lips. He waits, his expression hazy and lust-ridden but intensely interested.

Emma likes that too. “Watch,” she commands softly as her hands slide their way back up his legs, a slow, torturous path as she kneads into the muscles and keeps her eyes on his. He’s not looking at her face, though, entranced by the path of her fingers on his skin.

She leans down and traces her tongue across his inner thigh, smiling when the skin underneath tenses for a quick moment before relaxing under her touch. She drags her lips up further and his anticipation is tangible, a subtle heat running through her veins and slowly ramping up as she gets closer to her target.

God, if it’s like this before she even _touches_ him --

She looks up at him once more, watching his expression as she takes him in her hand, barely any pressure as she drags her palm up his cock and slides her thumb over the tip.

His head drops back with a muttered curse, but Emma barely notices because _Jesus Christ_ , she feels nearly every bit of it jolting through her as if he’d slid his hand between her legs and teased her where she’s aching the most.

She swears under her breath and looks up at him, the tendons in his neck stretched as he stares at the ceiling.

“Killian,” she says, her voice dry and foreign to her own ears. “Watch.”

She waits until his head drops forward before leaning down, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his shaft and taking the head of his cock in her mouth.

His groan is _ungodly_ , only matched by her own because it’s almost too much to have his own pleasure surging through her like this. She takes a steadying breath and presses down on his hip with one hand while holding the base of his shaft in the other, drawing her lips up and down over the head and savoring the heavy feel of him on her tongue.

She truly loves doing this for him, but now, god, it’s like his own mouth is on her as she bobs her head, as slow as she can manage, listening to his gorgeous little moans as she hums against him. She lifts her eyes to his and holds his gaze as she traces her tongue over the tip, and it feels like her blood is boiling under the heat of his stare.

Emma feels wanton and powerful like this, watching him fall apart under her touch and letting his own pleasure wash over her. It’s her magic, it _has_ to be, and the thought emboldens her. She throws him a seductive little smile before pressing down on both hips and taking him as far in her mouth as she can, relaxing her throat and taking steadying breaths through her nose, swallowing around him.

She nearly comes on the spot.

Killian’s not much better off, his muscles tensing as he moans, strangled and low in his throat while he grips at the sheets.

She pulls off, catching her breath, and _fuck_ , he may as well have had his fingers buried inside her while he mouthed at her clit for how that felt.

Killian must notice as his breathing slowly evens out. “Bloody hell, love. Is it like that for you, too?”

“Yeah.” Her head drops to rest on his hip and she reaches down, sliding a hand under her clothing. “Let me try… can you -- ?”

She gets her answer when her fingers slide over her clit, finally soothing the ache she’s felt since she stepped into the bedroom. She looks up at him as she massages her flesh and watches as his eyes roll back, his head falling back on the pillow.

“Yes,” he confirms, breathless and wrecked, gasping when she slides two fingers inside and presses against her clit with her palm. “ _God_ , love.”

She sighs and continues to work with her hand, watching his cock twitch against his belly as she does so. She could come like this, so, so easily, and she thinks she could make him come too, without even touching him, just --

“Stop, Emma.”

Her hand stills and his face, almost pained in its rapture, relaxes. “The only way I want to finish right now is inside you, love.”

She nods, feeling a little shaky, and removes her hand, pulling herself upright between his legs. He smiles up at her and reaches out, grabbing her hand and pulling it to his mouth. She gasps as he takes her fingers between his lips, sucking them clean with a satisfied little smirk and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Another time,” he promises. “In the meantime, I think you’ve been clothed long enough.”

“ _God_ , yes,” she groans, reaching for the hem of her tank top and yanking it over her head. His smirk widens at the sight of her bare breasts but she’s out of his reach before he can take them in hand, stepping off the bed just long enough to kick off her pants and underwear.

His smirk is gone when she looks back at him after tossing away the offending clothing, his expression fond and a little awed. “Come here, love.”

She climbs back over his body, grateful to have had a few moments to calm down when he kisses her, deep and languid and easy. There it is again, his heartbeat in sync with hers, pressed against her chest while he explores her mouth and brushes her hair behind her ear. He smiles against her when she adjusts herself, settling her knees on either side of him but reluctant to pull away from his lips for more than a moment.

She settles for pressing her forehead to his as she reaches back and guides him to her, pushing her weight back and down, her pleased sigh turning to a breathy moan when he pushes in to the hilt.

“Oh.” His eyes flutter closed once he’s seated fully within her. “Oh, _love_.”

It nearly suffocates her, the shared sensations of being filled and his satisfaction at finally pushing inside. She closes her eyes against it and shifts, relaxing against him and letting her knees slide wider, and she finally understands why he yielded to her so easily before. She wants to drown in it, to lie back and let it carry her into oblivion.

Killian suddenly shifts beneath her, forcing her to lean back enough so he can sit up. She gasps at the change of angle and the just-harsh-enough scratch of his chest hair against her nipples, and he takes advantage long enough to claim her mouth, his tongue sliding inside as his hips start rolling to match the movement.

She drapes her arms over his shoulders and gives in to it, letting him push and take and _devour_. She’ll never get tired of this as long as she lives, not when she can feel the burning in her veins and every push-pull of him inside her makes her want to burst out of her skin.

Suddenly he’s pressing deep and she’s falling, flipped on her back and sinking softly into the pillows.

“Look at me, Emma.”

She obeys, opening her eyes and smiling up at him -- it’s impossible not to, not with his heart beating in her ears and his hair falling in his eyes.

She wraps a leg around his hip as he keeps the pace slow and measured, drawing it out as long as possible. It won’t take much; they’ve both been too close for far too long. He leans down and kisses her, soft and cherishing, and it only takes another few thrusts before she feels the familiar tightness building in her spine.

Emma rocks her hips up, chasing the sensation until she falls, flying apart even as she clenches around him. She digs her nails into his shoulders and she can see the exact moment her own orgasm floods through him, catching him by surprise. He comes with a choked moan and _fuck_ , she can feel his too, racing through her and taking her higher, bright spots of white on the edge of her vision.

It takes a long time for them to float down from it, an odd and pleasurable swing from bonelessness to tension and back again, his head pillowed on her chest and her fingers tracing nonsense patterns against his back.

He speaks first. “That was…”

“Fucking amazing,” she finishes for him, and he laughs against her collarbone.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

She chuckles, running her fingers through his hair and scratching at his scalp. “I just realized we can _never_ ask my parents about this. Ever.”

His shoulders shake with barely-contained laughter. “I do think it’s likely your magic, rather than the heart-sharing. But just the same, yes, it’s probably best we avoid the topic with them.”

“Do you think it’ll always be like this?”

He pauses, lifting his head to rest his chin on her chest. “I don’t know.” He shakes his head and smirks. “I certainly hope so. That was phenomenal, Swan.” He laughs when she rolls her eyes, though she certainly can’t argue with him. “Even if it isn’t, it was quite the experience.”

Emma hums her agreement and relaxes back into the pillows. “I love you, you know.”

“Of course I know, Emma. Now more than ever,” he says, tracing his hand over her heart, a pleased little smile on his face. He leans up to press his lips to hers. “Doesn’t mean I’ll ever get tired of hearing it, though.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After writing "Breathless," I had a LOT of smutty headcanons based on the idea that Emma and Killian shared not just a heart but physical feelings as well, thanks to an unexpected side-effect of her magic. This is pretty much 5,000 words of straight-up porn. You’ve been warned.

Their connection definitely takes some getting used to, and it keeps showing up in unexpected ways.

Emma had always been amazed at how little Killian was affected by the cold, all unzipped leather jackets and exposed chest hair no matter how frigid the weather. But now he shivers just as easily as she does, eventually breaking down and making a habit of wearing the thick wool overcoat she bought for him  -- black, of course. He draws the line at the beanies Emma is so fond of, but doesn’t protest when she drapes a scarf around his neck whenever they leave the house, probably because every time she does it she tugs him in for a kiss.

(“Why couldn’t you have taken on my penchant for wearing _fewer_ clothes in the cold?” he grumbles. Emma just pulls the scarf tighter and kisses him again.)

~

The first time Emma says “bloody hell,” she doesn’t even realize she’s done it -- she mutters the curse under her breath after spilling salad dressing on her sweater, standing up from the dinner table to grab some extra napkins. Henry’s eyes widen and Killian bites back a laugh, the two of them sharing a secret smile across the table.

~

She leaves him snuggled in the sheets one morning to meet Henry for breakfast at Granny’s before school, and halfway through their meal she nearly melts into her seat when a surge of warmth washes over her. She chews on the inside of her cheek to keep from giving herself away to her son -- how the hell is she going to explain that she can feel Killian taking a shower from halfway across town?

~

They’ve always been able to communicate with just a look, but now they can have entire conversations without saying a word. (They can’t read each other’s minds, much to their relief -- shared emotions are great and all, but there are _limits_ , dammit). It freaks her parents out a little bit, actually, once they start noticing that Emma and Killian hardly talk at family dinners but spend most of the time staring at each other, all half-smiles and raised eyebrows.

It’s that final little quirk that truly convinces them it’s not just the heart-sharing but some inadvertent magic of Emma’s, and Killian brings home every book he can find with even a passing mention of tethering spells.

And they’ll look through them, honestly. It is absolutely on their to-do list.

It’s just that they keep using every spare moment they have trying to kill each other with sex.

* * *

 

They spend the first few days home christening every room and damn near every surface in the house. And while they’d been sympatico in the bedroom pretty much immediately, they only had a few weeks to get truly comfortable with each other before Camelot and the Underworld rendered their sex life nonexistent. Now they’re learning each other all over again, this time with the unexpected but entirely welcome little… side effects of the new connection between them.

Emma thought the sex was good _before_ all this happened. Now it’s reducing her to a wobbly-kneed wreck several times a day. They’re not particularly adventurous at first, simply enjoying the act of _being_ with each other (the practically-guaranteed simultaneous orgasms are just a bonus) now that they’re home and safe and her family insisted that she take some time off work.

But then Killian goes down on her and comes without even touching himself, and she returns the favor once he’s recovered, utterly flattened by the experience of an orgasm without his mouth or fingers or cock bringing her there. Later, after they’ve showered, they both realize they’re idiots and Emma lies over his body, straddling his shoulders so she can tease at his cock with her tongue while he sucks at her clit. Emma’s not sure what’s more erotic, the taste of him on her tongue or the way he mouths at her harder when she takes him all the way in, both of them moaning into each other’s flesh. She comes so hard she almost forgets to breathe, barely able to slide off him with shaky limbs that refuse to work. She can’t help but giggle once she’s caught her breath.

“You okay over there?” she asks, smiling into his hip.

“Wonderful,” he concedes, pressing a kiss to her kneecap and flopping back into the pillows. “A man could get used to this.”

They lie there for a moment, buzzing and boneless and sated, and Emma grins when his fingers start tracing soft little circles across her thigh. He can’t seem to stop touching her these days, his hand always finding hers and pressing sweet little kisses to her temple every chance he gets.

But there’s nothing _sweet_ about the path of his hand as it slowly trails up. “Killian?” she asks, still too wrecked to lift her head and look at him.

“I wonder…” he trails off and she shivers. These days, those words always mean good things. “Emma?”

She closes her eyes to his touch, gentle and dangerous as it is, a question in his fingertips. “Do it,” she whispers.

He’s slow with it, so deliciously slow, and despite her body feeling so loose against the mattress she’s still wound up and oversensitive. Her breath hitches as his fingers slide home, two teasing inside of her while he thumbs gently at her clit.

“Fuck,” she mumbles, turning her face into his hip and arching against his hand. He’s found the perfect pace, just enough pressure for her overstimulated flesh to seize against his touch but not enough to make her pull away at the feeling of _too much_. And it is too much but it’s so unbelievably good, lying there at the mercy of his talented fingers.

The implications of what he’s doing are lost to her until she hears his choked gasp from the head of the bed. Emma allows one eye to drift open, her face tucked against his hip, and she grins into his skin when she sees him growing hard again.

“I know your recovery time is impressive, but this is ridiculous.”

His chuckle is a strangled thing, his voice strained. “That’s your own arousal making it happen rather than mine, love. I didn’t think it would work. Just go with it.”

When she reaches out to take him in hand he hisses through clenched teeth and she jolts along with him, feeling just how sensitive he is. She softens her grip immediately. “Sorry. Too much?”

“Yes,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation but never stilling his hand as it strokes and presses against her, _in_ her, her toes curling as she squirms against his touch.

He breathes deeply once, twice, and then: “Don’t stop.”

* * *

 

Killian sleeps uncharacteristically late the next morning, stirring only when Emma brushes a hand through his hair and leans down to press a kiss to his temple.

“I have to run a few errands,” she tells him, biting back a grin when he rubs at his eyes. He looks incredibly young when he first wakes up, the years melting off him when he looks up at her with a drowsy smile.

“I can accompany you if you wish.” His voice is thick with sleep and she does grin then -- he really does talk like a fairytale character sometimes. (She’ll never tell him how charming it is.)

“No, I want you well-rested.” She drops another kiss to his forehead. “I’ve got plans for you tonight.”

He’s suddenly wide-awake, his lips curling up in a smirk. “And just what might you be planning, Swan?”

“You’ll see,” she whispers in his ear, biting gently at the lobe and feeling his answering growl all the way to the tips of her toes.

“Why wait?” His voice is pure sex and it’s so, so tempting with him laid out like this, naked and willing beneath the covers. But she promised Henry lunch at Granny’s and groceries are running alarmingly low, and even though she’s not officially back at work yet she needs to run by the station for a bit.

Emma pulls away regretfully after one last bite at his jaw. “It’ll be worth it, I promise,” she tells him with a wink.

He groans, running a frustrated hand across his face. “You’ll be the death of me, Swan.”

“That’s the plan,” she sing-songs, just before stepping out the door.

(He certainly didn’t need to know that she’d Googled “refractory period” on her phone the night before once he’d passed out. Or that once she realized their magical connection allowed them to sidestep that little hurdle, she’d hardly been able to sleep once the possibilities became clear to her.)

(She’s already calling it “Operation Orgasms” in her head.)

~

The sun is just setting when she steps through the front door, arms laden down with grocery bags. He’s parked on the couch in front of the fire, book in hand, and he turns his head to look at her. “Need some help with those, love?”

“No thanks, this is everything.” She drops the bags on the counter and takes a minute to put the perishable items in the fridge, leaving the rest for later. She crosses the room and leans over the back of the couch, resting her chin on his shoulder and sliding her arms over his chest. “Good book?”

“Aye.” He dog-ears the page and sets it aside, his voice dropping an octave lower. “But I suddenly seem to have lost interest.” He leans his head back to look up at her, his eyes hooded as she leans down to kiss him. Her hand slides into his hair and she tugs gently, tilting his head even further back as his jaw drops open, a pleased little moan rumbling through him as her tongue sweeps inside, tasting him thoroughly.

“I could feel you, you know,” she whispers against his lips. “All damn day.” Her little tease that morning had left them both with a low-key arousal that never quite went away, ebbing occasionally only to rise again whenever she let her thoughts drift to her plans for the evening -- and every time it did, she knew the surge of anticipation she felt wasn’t entirely her own.

He grins against her mouth and she nips at his jaw. “And I you,” he breathes out, only to nearly choke on his words when she tugs harder at his hair, leaning down suck a mark into the skin of his throat. He’s nearly gasping when she pulls away. “Come around here, love. Let me touch you.”

“I’ll be doing most of the touching tonight,” she murmurs, holding his head in place and returning to his lips. Her free hand slides over his chest, slipping under the open neck of his henley and pressing her palm over his heart. He finally gives her what she wants, sighing into her mouth and relaxing into the cushions. She hums appreciatively. “There we go. Lie back and enjoy, Captain.”

The curtains shut and the lights go out with a flick of her wrist as she walks around the couch, leaving the room bathed in the warmth of the firelight. His tongue darts over his lip as he watches her but he otherwise doesn’t move as she appraises him.

He’s even more handsome by the soft glow of the fire, her eyes roaming over his body, and he smirks for a moment under her gaze. She knows he can feel the hunger in her, and the quirk of his eyebrow lets her know he knows _exactly_ how attractive she finds him. He would probably tease her about it but he knows better, knows that she can feel it every time he looks at her and thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

She leans down, pressing her hands to his thighs as she captures his lips once more. He again acquiesces to her, dutifully keeping his arms at his sides while she explores his mouth. She slides her hands up until she finds the hem of his shirt, humming her approval when he lifts his arms and allows her to remove it, grateful that he decided to forego the hook and brace, no doubt expecting it would be stripped off when she got home anyway.

She scratches her fingers through the hair on his chest, drifting lower and admiring how his muscles tense under her touch. She can’t resist the urge to kneel down and place slow, dragging kisses across his abdomen. He finally touches her then, a soft press of his fingers in her hair as he gently cradles the back of her head.

“I like your plans, Emma.” His voice is low, almost as if in a trance, and she smiles into his skin.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Oh really?”

Her hands find the waistband of his pants, and as much as she likes the leather, the sweats he prefers to wear around the house are _much_ easier to remove. “I could tell you, but where’s the fun in that?” He lifts his hips and allows her to undress him completely.

Their eyes never leave each other’s, and even though she’s kneeling between his legs they both know Emma has all the power here. Her hand slides up his thigh but she never breaks his gaze, wanting to watch his face as she drags her fingertips up his cock.

She’s rewarded with a hitch in his breath and a brief moment of his eyes rolling back before he finds her gaze again, the naked heat in his stare sending a flush of warmth through her. She leans down and takes him in her mouth, a quick tease as she sucks at the head for a few moments, just long enough to make him moan and grab the back of her head while the feeling rushes through her.

Naked. She needs to be naked _now_.

She pulls back and whips her sweater over her head, tossing it aside and reaching for the clasp of her bra. The garment goes just as easily, and she revels in the intensity of Killian’s stare before standing up to remove her boots.

“I was under the impression you wanted to go slowly, love,” he says, licking his lips when she goes for the button on her jeans.

“Just trust me,” she tells him with a wicked grin, sliding off both pants and underwear in one easy motion.

His hand reaches for her in a gesture that looks entirely automatic once she’s standing naked before him, but he stills and pulls it back, his hand clenching at his thigh. He’s got that look again, turned-on and overwhelmed but still completely besotted.

Emma smiles and basks in the feeling for a brief moment, stepping closer and taking his face in her hands, kissing him thoroughly. “You’re so good for me,” she whispers, nipping at his lip and kneeling on the couch, straddling his lap.

His response is unexpected. “Love you,” he tells her, like it’s a secret, something special and perfect and just between the two of them.

She leans down, leans _into_ him, pressing love into his skin everywhere she can touch, her lips bruising against his as she reaches down and guides him to her, sinking down onto him as her heart threatens to burst, beating like mad against his.

“Love you too,” she whispers against his lips as she spreads her thighs and pushes herself down to the hilt, settling for a moment and just enjoying being filled by him, his own pleasure coursing through her and reducing her breaths to short little gasps.

He lies back, still beautifully compliant underneath her, his only movement the soft press of his hand at the small of her back. “Have your way with me, love.”

She grins and slides both hands into his hair, tugging his head back again and delighting in the way his breath goes ragged as she leans down and fuses her mouth to his, lifting her hips and sinking back down again in a slow, delicious slide.

She can’t get enough of him like this, the utter love and trust he gives her, allowing her to do this, to press him back into the cushions and just _take_. It’s vulnerable and gorgeous, and she has to force herself to keep the pace steady, wanting to make it last.

It can’t, though, as aroused as they’ve been all day, and it’s not long before the little noises of pleasure he makes grow louder and more unrestrained. She breaks their kiss just to listen to them, pressing her face into his neck as she speeds up the motion of her hips. She can hardly breathe, she’s so full like this, her thighs burning as every roll of her hips presses her clit against him, and she forgets anything resembling _slow_ and _measured_ , chasing her release and pushing Killian higher and higher as she goes.

He comes first, his hips jerking up and he bites down against her shoulder, but it’s only a moment before his pleasure floods into her and she’s gasping and clenching against him. No matter how many times it happens Emma doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to it, the shared feeling of coming together leaving her breathless and spent.

Their chests heave in tandem as they come down, neither of them especially eager to move.

“I _do_ so love your plans, Emma.” His words are hot against her shoulder, and she can feel the flex of his muscles against her stomach as he laughs softly.

She grins into his neck. “Oh, we’re not done. Not by a long shot.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

She finally lifts her head to look down at him. “Do you remember that night on the Jolly?”

He raises an eyebrow, his eyes bright but still a bit hazy, confused about her abrupt change of subject. “We’ve had a lot of nights on the Jolly.”

She runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. “There was one in particular.”

Emma flushes just thinking about it. How he pinned her down and made her come, over and over, until she was a sweaty, useless mass of limbs against his sheets. First with his fingers, watching her carefully until he couldn’t stand it anymore and leaned in to tease at her breasts with his tongue and teeth. She fell twice that way, and then his mouth -- oh _God_ , his mouth -- he’d pulled her to the edge of the bed and knelt down, her legs draped over his shoulders while he licked and sucked and made her shake with need, and every time she thought he was done he kept coming back for more. Involuntary tears had sprung to her eyes when he finally buried himself inside her, and it was all she could do to hang on while he moved in her. When she came around him he stopped, still inside her, bringing her back up and down again with his fingers at her clit. She couldn’t even move when he resumed his thrusts, just listened to him whisper filthy endearments in her ear while he coaxed her through one last time. He’d pushed her to her breaking point and beyond that night.

She wants it again. And this time, she wants to make him feel it, too.

Killian’s eyes flash, clearly feeling the heat as she relives the memory, and for just once she wishes he could read her mind. “Which night?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

She leans down and presses her lips to his ear. “You don’t remember?” Her voice drops lower and she recites his own words from that night back to him. “‘ _Just one more, love, I know you can do it. That’s a good girl_.’”

His hand tightens at her back and he swallows heavily. “Aye, I remember.”

Emma grips at his hair and pulls his head back, forcing him to look in her eyes. Her other hand slides down to where they’re still joined, her fingers teasing as she watches and waits, grinning when she feels him growing hard inside her.

_Like magic._

“Good,” she says, dipping her head to rest her lips against his, barely touching. “Because it’s your turn.” His hips stutter as her fingers continue to work. “That was one. How many more do you have in you?”

He growls and suddenly she’s flat on her back, his hand reaching down to draw her leg over his hip.

“Mmmm, taking charge. I like it.” His eyes are predatory as he leans down to capture her mouth, and there’s nothing gentle about the way his lips move against hers. His first thrust is rough and unexpected and _perfect_. Caught-off guard, she throws her head back, a delighted little laugh escaping her. “That won’t last long, though.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that, love.”

~

It doesn’t last.

They collapse on the couch after their second orgasm of the night, spent and heavy, Killian’s head resting over her heart while he catches his breath.

Emma’s already pushing him off her before he can fully collect himself. “C’mon, up.”

He groans in protest. “Let a man recover for a moment, love.”

“You’re the self-proclaimed sex god here, not me. Now let’s go, _up_.”

They don’t even bother picking up their clothes, and he lets Emma pull him by the hand up the stairs, only stopping by the bathroom for the world’s quickest clean-up session before she steers him towards the bedroom.

He flops gratefully onto the mattress and Emma is on him immediately, crawling up the sheets and settling next to him on her side. “That’s two down. How many more to go?”

His answering laugh is a bit on the manic side and Emma frowns, reaching up to trace her thumb over his cheek. “Hey, is this okay? If you don’t want to --”

His smile softens and he leans in, just a whisper of a kiss across her lips. “I want to,” he assures her. “Don’t go easy on me, Swan.”

“Good.” She pulls him in again for an easy, languid kiss, pressing her forehead to his and breathing him in. “Touch me, Killian.”

He still has that fond little smile when he reaches down, his fingers taking a slow and teasing path over her stomach, hip, and thigh before finally reaching their target. She sighs when his fingertips slide through her folds, one finger pressing inside and his thumb teasing her nerves with devastating accuracy. His eyes drift closed as he works at her, his fingers faltering for a moment as the feeling floods through him.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes as she can feel him growing hard against her thigh. “Is this what it’s like for you?”

“Mmm-hmm. Pretty great, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” he gasps, and she grabs at his wrist, pulling his hand away. The sound he makes is halfway between relief and disappointment, but she doesn’t give him long to dwell on it, pressing both of his shoulders to the mattress and sliding down.

“I’ve got you,” she promises, taking him in hand and _fuck_ , he’s oversensitive and it almost makes her pull back when she feels how ragged his nerves are. She takes a deep breath and looks up at him.

His eyes are closed, his face to the ceiling, and raw as he is, she can see -- no, _feel_ \-- how much he _loves_ it.

She bites her lip to hold back her grin and leans down, not even bothering to tease him before taking him in her mouth.

If he doesn’t want her to go easy on him, she won’t.

~

After making them come a sixth time, Emma comes to several realizations.

One: Killian can barely handle multiple orgasms. Amateur.

Two: While Emma is still ready and willing to keep going, he can hardly string a coherent sentence together, and his exhaustion is affecting her.

Three: A fucked-out Killian Jones is the hottest thing she’s ever seen.

She props her head in her hand and takes a few moments to enjoy the view. He’s covered in sweat and gasping for air, his hair a sticky mess on his forehead. She reaches over and brushes it back, and the little noise of pleasure he makes at her fingers in his scalp goes straight between her legs. He couldn’t even handle being touched for the last one, so she’d taken matters into her own hands, quite literally, bringing herself to completion while she watched him drown in the sensation, restless and squirming against the pillows. And the _sounds_ he’d made, _Jesus_.

 _Fuck_ , he’s gorgeous.

He twitches against her touch as her hand slides down to his chest. “Ready for more?”

His moan is utterly primal and exhausted, and she takes pity on him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Rest up a minute. I’ll be back soon.”

She doesn’t even bother getting dressed before heading for the kitchen, finding a half-full bottle of Gatorade in the fridge and chugging the entire thing in one go. She leans her forehead against the freezer door when she’s done, letting the cool air from the fridge raise goosebumps over her skin. The chill wakes her up a bit and she gets back to work, fixing a glass of ice water and bringing it back upstairs.

She has to force him to sit up when she perches herself on the edge of the bed, reaching under his shoulders and lifting him to a sitting position. “Here, drink this.”

He takes the glass gratefully, downing half of it in one swallow. “I’d prefer rum.”

She chuckles and sets the glass on the nightstand. “No, I want you hydrated for this.” She leans forward, her forehead touching his. “We can stop now, Killian. You’ve been amazing.”

“No, love, I think this has been all you.” His head drops to her shoulder, his laugh broken and gorgeous against her skin. “Don’t stop. I… this is…” he trails off and he doesn’t need to finish his sentence. It’s everything she felt when he did this to her, strung-out and used but still _desperate_ for it.

“Okay,” she tells him, lifting his face for an aching kiss. “I’ve got you.”

He presses forward and she melts into it, and it’s suddenly like they’re back in front of Granny’s, nervous and hopeful and _new_ , endless possibilities in front of them. She’ll never figure out how he does this to her, every time, so easy and perfect and _right_.

~

Eight, she decides. Eight is the perfect number.

Killian is still only half-coherent but she knows she can make him go one more time, no matter how out-of-it he is.

His hair is soaked with sweat as she pushes it out of his face, brushing her lips over his brow. “Just one more, babe. Can you do that?”

His eyes finally open at her request, a deeper blue than she’s ever seen them. “I don’t -- I don’t know, love.”

She reaches between her legs, knowing it’s the only way to make him ready, and his gasp is strangled when her fingers find their target.

“You know how it goes,” she whispers against his cheek. “It won’t take long, not after so many. Just one more, Killian. You can do it.”

“All right,” he stutters, and the brutal push of pleasure-pain he’s feeling shoots through her. For a moment she can’t even move, can’t _breathe_ , but she pushes forward and climbs over him, straddling his waist and reaching to guide him to her.

“Bloody _fuck_ ,” he moans when he slips inside her. “ _Emma_.”

It’s all she can do not to collapse against him, and she braces her hands against his chest and rolls her hips.

He’s so wrecked that it nearly hurts to keep moving like this, but she pushes through and is rewarded by the absolute rapture on Killian’s face, pained and happy and _gone_.

She’s right -- it takes almost nothing to set them off again, so close to the edge before they even started. It’s not intense, not like before, but light and easy, just like coming home.

She laughs, just a little on stilted breaths, leaning down to kiss him one more time. He smiles into it, his hand shaking against her ribs.

“I love you,” she whispers against his lips, and for all they’ve just done nothing is as gratifying as the warmth that flushes through her when he hears her admission.

“And I you.” He tugs her bottom lip between his teeth, still remarkably erotic even when he can barely move.

Emma slides off and collapses next to him, and _fuck_ the sheets and cleaning up -- she’s not budging.

“Told you you couldn’t handle it,” she mumbles against his chest.

“That’s never stopped being true.” She feels his lips press against the crown of her head, love and affection flooding through her as his hand tightens around her shoulder. “And just so you know, love, I plan on getting you back for this.”

She laughs into his collarbone. “Looking forward to it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a LOT of ideas for this chapter, but ended up cutting some of them short because my muse has run away with me and decided that Chapter 4 is going to be an angst-filled nightmare. But in the meantime: smut and fluff!

Killian very nearly causes Emma to call in sick on her first day back to work.

She slaps angrily at her alarm clock that morning, the first time she’s used the thing since returning from the Underworld. His arm is around her waist before she can even pull back the covers, his nose buried in the crook of her neck.

“You don’t _have_ to go in, you know,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and his breath hot on her neck.

It’s a compelling argument, honestly, especially when he pulls her snugly against him and presses his lips to her shoulder. The bedroom is chilly and he’s a human furnace anyway, and for just a moment Emma sighs and lets her eyes droop closed.

“There we are, love.” His words are muffled against her skin, his hand splayed across her stomach.

Emma relaxes into his touch and gives him three exhales. Two breaths that scatter over her skin and then another to savor the goosebumps that follow before she starts acting like a responsible adult.

“I’ve gotta get up.” His answering groan rumbles through her but she manages to extricate herself from his embrace and crawl out of bed, the chill in the room instantly making her more alert.

“It’s far too early for such nonsense, Emma.”

“Sorry.” She leans over the bed to press a kiss to his cheek, but he’s too quick for her, tilting his head and sliding his hand into her hair, catching her lips by surprise. She doesn’t have it in her to complain, morning breath and all, not when he can pull her to him so easily and warm her from the inside out.

Not when he’s taken so easily to sleeping in with her now that they’re home. He’d always gotten up at the crack of dawn before.

Emma kisses him soundly before steeling herself and pulling away. “You know this had to happen sometime.”

“I suppose. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.” He’s speaking more into the pillows than to her, his face half-buried in the covers.

“I know.” She ruffles his hair before disappearing into the bathroom.

This is going to be harder than she thought.

* * *

 

It’s not all that bad once she’s at the station -- David graciously handles most of the calls and lets her spend most of her time catching up on paperwork and easing back into the swing of things. She’s so wrapped up in administrative duties that she almost forgets to miss Killian.

Almost.

It’s some consolation that she can feel his heart beating, even halfway across town. It’s not intrusive. It never really gets in her way or distracts her from her work, but whenever she takes a moment -- waiting for a pot of coffee to brew, being put on hold on the phone, tapping her fingers while she waits for the ancient computers to load -- she can focus on it, relax into the steady thrum and find some solace knowing that he misses her too.

It’s 12:15 and she’s just contemplating taking her lunch break when her phone rings, and she smiles when she looks at the caller ID. So _that’s_ where that little rush of anticipation came from.

“Hey.”

“Hello, love. How’s your first day back?”

“Not too bad, just a lot of administrative stuff. How’s _your_ first day with me back?”

“This bed is awfully lonely without you in it, Swan.”

She smiles. “Are you _still_ in bed?”

“No, merely returned to it.” There’s the faint sound of rustling covers from his end of the line.

“Settling in for a nap after a hard morning of sleeping in?”

“Not quite, love. Are you in your office?”

“Uh... yes?”

“Excellent. I need you to close and lock the door.”

Emma frowns, glancing around. “What? What are you -- “

“No need to be alarmed, Swan.” His voice drops lower. “But you’re going to want some privacy in just a moment.”

Heat flushes through her at his words, and _shit._ “Killian,” she hisses, “I’m at _work_. You can’t -- “

“I’m quite certain I can.” The fucker is smirking, she just _knows_ it. “And I did tell you I was going to get you back for that delightful night where you nearly made me forget my own name.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You loved it.”

“That I did, Swan. But I’ll not ask again: close your door and lock it.” There’s a muted beep and and a muffled little _poof_ , and no way. He’s not --

“Did you just put me on speaker?”

“I’m going to need my hand free for this, love.”

She’s out of her chair in a flash, shutting her office door a little harder than she meant to and turning the deadbolt. It’s barely clicked into place when she feels it, a soft caress at her inner thigh just as though his own hand was on her.

“Just in time.” He chuckles, the sound settling right between her legs, and she leans her forehead against the door. “You may want to be sitting down for this if you’re not already.”

“Killian,” she sighs. It’s a weak protest and they both know it, and she can’t help it when her heartbeat speeds up in tandem with his.

“I love how you say my name,” he murmurs. Another caress, this one closer to where she wants him. “Last chance to sit, Swan. I suggest you take it.”

She finds her way back to her chair on slightly-shaky legs. “Happy now?”

“Very,” he purrs. “Now -- how was it you put it? -- sit back and enjoy.”

The first pass of his hand takes her by surprise, a confident stroke after his soft little teases. Emma bites her lip and closes her eyes, letting her head fall back and squirming in her chair. They’ve only ever done this when they’re in the same room; not being able to look at him or know what comes next is disarming, and it sends an anticipatory thrill up her spine while she waits for his next move.

She can’t stop her choked-off little noise when he presses just a bit harder, and her thighs fall open as if it could offer him better access to her, her hips rising into his phantom touch.

“You like that, love?” His voice is sinful in her ear, low and intimate and dangerous.

“You know I do,” she breathes.

“You must look a sight right now. Biting your lip to keep from crying out --” he makes a particularly hard stroke on that last word, one she can feel down to the tips of her toes, and she doesn’t make a noise besides a pained gasp, “ -- ah, just like that. And I know you, you can’t keep still when I touch you like this.”

Emma can’t help but smile. “But you’re not touching me.”

“Aren’t I?” And fuck, she can _hear_ his hand speed up over his own flesh and the results are instantaneous, her chair squeaking as she arches her back against it.

His breaths are coming faster now, the control he’s been exhibiting faltering on his stuttered exhales. Emma knows the sound well, hears it every time he’s inside of her, his lips hot on her ear. Unthinking, she reaches down, popping the button on her pants and sliding her hand under the fabric.

She sighs as her fingers press down where she’s wet and aching, rolling her hips into it as her head droops down to her chest.

Killian’s voice shocks her out of the blissful sensation. “Don’t you dare,” he growls.

“What? I -- “

She can _feel_ the rough squeeze he gives himself, her hips jumping against her touch, against _his_ touch.

“The only way you’re coming is through me.” Half of her wants to respond with a snappy retort, wants to tell him she’ll come however she damn well pleases, but the other half shivers under his command and she _wants_ it, wants every bit of pleasure he’s willing to give her.

She breathes hard once, twice. Then she removes her hand.

“Very good, love.” He’s slowed his ministrations but his voice dances across her frayed nerves, plucking strings pulled too-tight as she grips at the arm of her chair, her knuckles going white. “What do you need?”

She drags in a deep breath, dropping her head back and settling into her seat. “Faster.”

“As you wish. Hold on, darling.”

Her hand nearly goes numb against the arm of the chair, she’s gripping so hard. He stops talking for the most part, the only sounds the rough slide of skin against skin and Killian’s increasingly-labored breaths. She can practically see him splayed out over her sheets, a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin as he bites his lip, his soft moans echoing in her ears.

“Good?” he asks on a sharp breath, his powers of speech seemingly deserting him.

“Yeah,” she gasps, not any better off than he is. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t intend to.” His voice is higher now, gorgeously strained. “Almost there, love.”

“I’m with you,” she mumbles, consciously forcing herself to relax, letting her hand droop bonelessly over the arm of her chair, slumping as he speeds his movements and drives her higher with every step. His breath grows erratic as she presses her phone tighter to her ear, greedy for the sound,  not just his voice but every slick movement as he pleasures himself, pleasures _her_.

It’s only another minute before he comes with a choked gasp, reigning in his voice almost as if he can be heard in her quiet little office. His release shoots through her on a tense shared moment, setting her off deliciously as her hips roll forward, twitching and sated and ruined.

She listens as his breaths gradually slow, their heartbeats still thundering in her ears and a faint hum buzzing under her skin. She can’t help but laugh a little. “Seriously? I can’t believe you just did that.”

His laugh is low and soft. “I wasn’t entirely sure it would work.”

Emma grins and stretches in her seat. “It’s worked plenty of times before.”

“Not from the other side of town,” he points out.

“True. I wonder how far away we’d have to be from each other for it to… well, not work.”

“If it’s all the same to you, love, I’d rather not find out.” Emma can hear the unspoken part of that, the _I don’t want to be that far away from you_.

“Yeah,” she whispers, not saying the words but answering him all the same. “Me either.”

“I must say, though, being able to feel your heartbeat is something of a comfort if I can’t have you here with me.”

It baffles her how he can lighten the mood with a declaration like that. “That and phone sex, right?”

“Ah, is that what it’s called?”

“Yeah. Though most people don’t get the benefit of simultaneous Jedi orgasms.” She sighs and looks down, her lips twitching up at the sight of her unbuttoned pants. “I’m sorry, but I really do need to go. You’ve cut into my lunch break and I still need to eat,” she teases.

“We both know food isn’t the only thing you’re hungry for, love.”

“I dunno, I’m feeling pretty satisfied right now.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome.”

She rolls her eyes. “Goodbye, Killian.”

“Goodbye,” he says with a laugh and then, softer: “Don’t work too late.”

“I won’t. I love you.”

“And I you.”

* * *

 

She ends up leaving early, her father shooting her a knowing smile when she ducks out twenty minutes before her shift ends.

But she isn’t prepared for when she walks in the door, finding Killian on his usual spot on the couch, book in hand. She expected to see him smile, to get up and greet her with a kiss. But she’s stunned by the rush that flows through her, his simple, uncomplicated happiness at seeing her lighting her up from the inside out.

She knew, obviously. _Of course_ she knew.

( _But it’s one thing to know it and another to…” he drifts off, pulling her in even tighter._

 _“To feel it,” she finishes._ )

His kiss is quick but she lingers against him, gripping his shoulders and tracing the tip of her nose against his cheek. “So you _did_ miss me.” She tries to keep her words light, but the tightness in her throat gives her away.

“Aye,” he says, his eyes softening in understanding. “And _you_ ,” he playfully nudges his nose against hers, “missed me.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Open book, love.” He reaches down and finds her hand with his, their fingers lacing together. “In more ways than one, now.”

“Do you think…” Emma trails off, struggling to find the right words. He waits patiently, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Do you think this’ll ever get old?”

His brow furrows. “What’s that?”

“This… _thing_ between us, whatever it is. Not -- not our relationship, but -- “

“Ah,” he nods in understanding, and she’s immensely grateful she doesn’t have to try to explain further. “I’ve not tired of it yet.” He winks and cocks an eyebrow. “Especially after our little lunchtime dalliance.”

Emma feels her cheeks heat up, but she’s not letting him off that easily. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He leans in, his forehead touching hers. “Emma, the best thing that ever happened to me is being loved by you. Being able to feel it as I do is…” He shakes his head and Emma knows, even with his way with words it’s nearly impossible to describe. He smiles when she gives his hand an encouraging squeeze, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I already told you -- I like feeling what you feel for me. I don’t anticipate that changing anytime soon.”

Emma blinks back the moisture in her eyes, trying to steady her breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stand there for a long, quiet moment, Emma sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her ear to his chest. She can’t stop her smile when they start to sway in place, just as they always do when they’re so close together.

“What about you, love?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think you’ll ever tire of this?”

She pulls her arms around him tighter and thinks about feeling that wave of happiness and love every time she walks through her front door, and God, she wants it, wants it every single day of her life. “No. Never.”

His relieved exhale makes her heart squeeze in her chest, and she tilts her head back to give him a reassuring smile.

His answering grin is like the sun coming out, and he leans down, his lips feeling more like home than any picket fence ever could.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I thought I'd just be writing smutty interludes for sequels, but this took a bit of an unexpected turn. Please don't kill me.

They are the stupidest couple alive.

So, _so_ stupid.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a pretty slow day at the station all told, only a few minor calls to deal with, and Emma finds herself contemplating leaving early. She’s done a lot of that since coming back, but David hasn’t complained and her paperwork already finished.

She twirls a bit in her desk chair, tapping her pencil and watching the clock for a few minutes before giving in. David can handle the last 25 minutes of the shift, and if she’s lucky, she can be at the docks to catch Killian and Henry bringing in the _Jolly_.

She’s just reaching for her jacket when a searing pain shoots through her right arm, nearly bringing her to her knees.

“ _Shit_ . Ow, what the -- _shit_!” She bends over at the waist, gripping at her forearm.

Her father is at her side in an instant. “Emma? What happened?” He reaches for her hand and Emma snatches it back before he can touch her.

“Don’t -- it’s my wrist, I don’t know,” she gasps. “It just started hurting and -- _shit_.” She swears again, but not in pain. “I need you to drive me to the docks.”

“The docks? Emma, you need to see a doctor -- “

“ _I’m not hurt_ ,” she hisses. “It’s Killian. Something happened to him.”

“What? How do you -- “

“Just trust me, okay? I’ll explain later, just _take me to him._ ” She bites back another curse. “Please.”

Her phone chooses that moment to ring, and she fumbles with it left-handed to look at the screen before answering. “Henry?”

“Mom! Can you get down to the _Jolly_? Killian caught his hand in the rigging while we were docking and his wrist is -- I don’t know if it’s broken or what, and I know I probably should have just called an ambulance but -- you can heal him, right? Or should I -- “

“I’m on my way, kid,” she manages, fighting to keep the strain out of her voice. “Stay with him, okay? Be there soon.” She hangs up before giving herself away, and the look her father gives her tells her he heard most of what Henry had to say.

She blows by him before he can question her any further, cradling her right hand close to her body and clenching her teeth. “Come on, let’s go.”

~

The car ride is short and mercifully silent. Emma spends most of it hunched over, her right hand lying useless in her lap. Every bump in the road causes a painful jolt that starts in her wrist and shoots up her arm, her fingers going numb. She tries not to think of Killian but it’s impossible when she can feel his heart racing along with the white-hot pain that accompanies every tiny movement.

What if Henry hadn’t been with him? What if she didn’t know where he was for the day?

What if she’d been fighting the latest fairy tale monster to hit Storybrooke?

“Stay here,” she tells David when they reach the docks, climbing out of the car and steeling herself before approaching the ship. Explaining everything to her father is going to be awkward enough; she doesn’t need to tip off Henry either.

“Mom!” he calls when he sees her nearing the gangplank, waving as he leans over the railing. “He’s over here.”

Emma speeds up her steps and regrets it immediately, clenching her jaw against a fresh wave of agony shooting up her arm and wincing when she hears Killian cry out because of it.

“Stay back a minute, kid,” she tells Henry when she makes it aboard, trying to keep her arm still as she approaches Killian.

He’s sitting on an empty crate, his shoulders slumped and his face gone white, his features pinched as he rocks back-and-forth through stilted breaths. His hand lies in his lap and Emma almost has to turn away at the sight of it, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

“Killian.”

He looks up at the sound of her voice and, despite everything, his mouth turns up in a pained smile. “Hello, love. Don’t suppose you could help a fellow out?”

“I’ve got you. Hold still.” She kneels down and lets her good hand hover over his wrist, reaching inside herself and pulling until the familiar heat flares up in the pit of her stomach, channeling it and watching the faint glow as the bones in his wrist knit back together neatly under her palm.

The relief is instantaneous and they both sigh in tandem, leaning into one another.

“Have I ever told you you’re bloody brilliant?” he asks on a shaky laugh as the adrenaline fades.

Emma grins. “Once or twice.” She flexes her right hand, rolling it around experimentally, shaking out the last vestiges of pain as she wiggles her fingers.

Killian frowns when he realizes what she’s doing, catching her wrist in his hand. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I was in such a state I’d completely forgotten -- are you all right?”

Emma looks down where his thumb brushes across her skin. “I’m fine now.”

“But you weren’t.” His jaw tightens and his guilt is palpable, but Henry interrupts them before she can say anything further.

“You okay?” he asks, slowly approaching them.

Killian’s face changes instantly, his features morphing into a smile as he stands up, holding up his hand and wriggling his fingers to demonstrate. “Good as new, thanks to your mother. And your quick thinking,” he adds, chucking him lightly on the shoulder. “If you hadn’t caught the rigging when you did I might have been stuck with two hooks instead of one.”

Henry doesn’t notice the tightness in Killian’s smile, but to Emma it’s clear as day. But she’s struck more by the flush of warmth and affection she feels when Killian speaks to Henry.

It nearly suffocates her, watching the man she loves look upon Henry with such fondness. And as difficult as it was to hide the pain she was feeling a few minutes ago it’s nothing compared to her fight to blink back the tears when she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Killian loves her son.

“Henry,” she says, her voice confident and strong, and it’s her best performance yet. “Do you think you can stay with Regina tonight instead of with us? We can switch off days.”

And Henry, bless him, seems to know something’s going on even if he can’t discern exactly what it is, and doesn’t press the issue. “Sure thing, Mom. You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, far more steady than she feels. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

The look she and Killian exchange says otherwise, the _we need to talk_ just as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud.

~

They ask David to drive Henry to Regina’s (“I’ll explain later,” she whispers to him, and boy is she _not_ looking forward to that conversation) and elect to walk home hand-in-hand, completely silent the whole way.

Emma is afraid to disturb the quiet as her front door shuts behind them. His arms are around her in an instant and she melts into it, squeezing him tightly as if it can ward off the conversation they both know needs to happen.

“I know we’ve some things to talk about,” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, “But this is more than that, love. What’s troubling you?”

“It’s nothing bad,” she whispers. “I just. When you looked at Henry, I could feel… well...”

“Emma,” he says, his fingers finding her cheek. “You know I love everything about you. And Henry, he’s -- he’s you.”

His kiss is soft and comforting and perfect, and Emma can’t bear to break the moment as they stand there together, breathing each other in.

“Well, love,” he finally says, apologetic and sad, “I think we should probably hit the books."

 

* * *

 

It’s a tethering spell, just as they suspected, most likely brought on by Emma’s fierce desire to never be separated from Killian again when she shared her heart with him.

There are a dozen varieties to be found -- some that function more like tracking spells, others that allow a type of telepathy -- but one in particular matches their symptoms perfectly: the shared sensations, both pleasure and pain. The ability to feel each other’s heartbeats, even from a great distance.

The closeness. The love.

And then, the most terrifying fact of them all: once broken, the tether can’t be restored.

“So,” Killian says, toying with the corner of the page, “this seems to be it.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, sighing and leaning against him. “So….”

“So.”

The silence stretches out as they sit, the words in the book mocking them as their heartbeats flutter between them.

“You know we can’t keep doing this,” she finally says, a physical ache blooming in her chest at the words. “Things have been quiet around here recently, but it never stays that way.”

He swallows and nods. “Aye.”

“And it was… god, it was just your wrist and I could barely even function. If I hadn’t been able to get to you…”

“I know.”

“If something attacks Storybrooke and one of us gets hurt… god, what if one of us is knocked unconscious? “ Emma rubs her hand across her face. “We’re so stupid. We didn’t even think about -- so stupid.” She looks up to see him staring blankly down at the page. “Killian? Talk to me.”

He sighs. “What do you want me to say, Emma?”

“I don’t know.” She reaches up and removes his hand from where he’s still fingering at the page, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles. “I was hoping there was some kind of way out of this.”

“There is,” he says, grimly nodding at the book before them.

“No, I mean without… without having to undo the tether.”

His hand tightens in hers, sadness and a hint of his fear washing over her. She can feel him hesitate, and then:

“I don’t want to do this.”

She closes her eyes and presses her shoulder further to his. “Me either.”

“I know we have to, love. It’s not safe. But I just…”

“I know.” Her eyes burn beneath the lids and she has to swallow down the tears that threaten. “I just don’t know how I can go back to not having this. Not when I know what it feels like.”

He turns his head, pressing his lips to her temple and sliding his arm around her back. “We managed before just fine, love,” he says, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than her.

“Yeah. And it’s probably not all that healthy for us to be this co-dependent.”

“Likely not, no.”

“And if either of us got the flu we’d _both_ be miserable.”

“Also true.”

Her voice grows quiet. “We won’t have the same nightmares anymore.”

His hand tightens at her waist, his mouth still pressed to her hair. “There were good dreams, too.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, there were.”

She clears her throat, sitting up straighter and looking down at the incantation in front of her. “So. This looks easy enough to do. We should probably just get it over with -- “

“Emma.”

“-- like ripping off a band-aid, right? And I can -- “

“ _Emma_.” His hand leaves her side and he covers hers with his own, flattening her palm against the weathered page. He can’t seem to look at her. “Wait.”

She sighs. “We’re going to have to do this sooner or later.”

“I know.” He bites his lip and and finally looks up. “But perhaps this can wait until morning.”

God, he’s _nervous_. Nervous and scared, the emotions plain as day on his face even without them pushing into her skin and settling into her bones. They ramp up while he waits for her answer, an uncomfortable itch across her nerves while his eyes study hers.

“One more night?” she asks, the itch suddenly fading and melting into a soothing sea of relief and gratitude.

“Aye,” he says, his smile broken but still genuine.”One more night.”

~

There’s a silent decision between them as they enter the bedroom, an unspoken promise to keep desperation and sadness out of this moment. What they’ve shared is too meaningful, too special to taint it like that.

They’re measured and slow with each other at first, still fully-dressed as they stretch out over the comforter. Emma carefully removes his rings, setting them aside on the nightstand before his hand slides into her hair, his lips soft and easy against hers as they lie on their sides, legs tangled together.

Her hand finds it way to his heart as it so often does, slipping under the open neck of his shirt and pressing flush against his skin as his kiss turns light and teasing, and she can feel him smile against her before pressing in for more.

Killian is unhurried and relaxed against her, gently guiding her onto her back as his tongue sweeps inside, deliciously hot and slow. Emma hums into it, letting her knees fall open as he settles into the cradle of her thighs, her fingers sliding into his hair.

She could spend the whole night like this, his weight settled comfortably above her and his mouth exploring her own as if they haven't already done this a hundred times. Killian seems to be of the same mind, his hips firmly pressing hers to the mattress but not demanding more.

His attention drifts from her mouth as his lips find their way to her jaw, her shiver passing through both of them as he kisses just below her ear. He’s catalogued all these little spots of hers before but he seems determined to make a thorough job of it once more, his lips tracing a soft path down her neck before teasing at her shoulder with just a hint of tongue and teeth.

Emma sighs and rolls her hips up as he sucks a mark into her collarbone, his arousal simmering under her skin. She lifts his head with a tiny tug on his scalp and he smiles down at her while she brushes his hair off his forehead.

He toys with the hem of her shirt, lifting the fabric up and skimming her ribs with the lightest of touches. “A little help here, love?”

He goes easily when she rolls him onto his back, straddling his hips and helping him lift her shirt over her head. His hand returns to her ribs and he grins when he finds a ticklish spot, his breath hitching and the muscles in his torso tightening as the sensation runs through him. Emma leans down to kiss his smile, and he takes the opportunity to unclasp her bra when she does so.

She laughs against his lips. “You’re quicker at that than I am.”

“Years of fastening clasps one-handed, love,” he reminds her as she tosses the garment aside. “Come now, let me look at you.”

Emma sits back up and watches as he drinks in the sight of her, giving a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that sends heat pooling between her legs where they’re pressed together. His cheeks are tinged pink as he looks at her and the same warmth rises under her own skin, his hand following the path of the flush from the top of her chest down to her breasts.

She rolls her hips again when his thumb brushes over a nipple and they groan in tandem at the shared sensations. She catches his hand and lifts it to her mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm and drifting down to his wrist, the feather-light touch fluttering through her and erasing any lingering traces of pain from just a few hours before.

Killian suddenly sits up, the abrupt shift creating a delicious friction between them, and he swallows down her surprised moan with his lips, like he couldn’t go another moment without kissing her.

She knows how he feels, cupping his face and relishing the scratch of his stubble as his jaw works beneath her palms. She gets lost in it, tasting and touching as their arousal grows, and she never stops kissing him even as she works at the buttons of his shirt.

They undress slowly, tracing every newly-exposed inch of skin with hands and lips as they go. Killian is especially meticulous with his ministrations, thorough and cherishing and always, _always_ returning to her lips as each item of clothing falls by the wayside.

When they’re finally completely bare to each other she finds herself once again on her back, he on his side, leaning over her with the gentle smile that’s hardly left his face since they first came together. His simple joy is contagious, lifting Emma up and keeping both of them light and free and easy.

She reaches up, thumbing at the dimple on his cheek and pulling him down to her lips, their smiles interfering with their kiss and neither of them caring one bit. “What do you need?” she asks, nipping at his jaw and scratching her nails through the hair on his chest.

“Just you, love.” His eyes stay on her face as his hand trails down, teasing light little circles over her inner thigh before sliding back up. Emma sighs and his gasp is soft as his fingers slide home, teasing little strokes as his eyes darken and his breathing goes shallow. They both moan when he slides deeper, the press of his thumb causing a hitch in her hips as she tilts them into his hand.

She resists the urge to close her eyes and let her head drop back, keeping her hand at Killian’s cheek and watching his face as he leisurely pleasures them both. He’s gorgeous like this, all soft eyes and low moans, but she stops him before he can work them up too much, reaching down and catching his wrist.

He raises an eyebrow in surprise but she kisses him before he can object, pressing her hand against his cock and delighting in the shiver it sends up her spine when she drags her fingertips up his length and over the tip. “I want you inside me,” she murmurs into his cheek.

“As you wish,” he chokes out as she wraps her hand around him for one more tease before settling back into the mattress and drawing him above her.

His eyes never leave hers, and they share a contented sigh when he presses inside. Emma raises her hips to meet him, her thighs falling open as she takes him deeper.

It’s so much like their first time together, all eye contact and breathless smiles, his fingers lacing with hers as he pins her hand to the mattress, but so much _more_ now that they can share the feeling of filling and being filled, pleasure on top of pleasure in an endless, sensuous loop.

They take their time, keeping an easy pace full of soft words and languid kisses. Emma’s heart feels ready to burst when Killian finally reaches down, pressing his hand to the small of her back and lifting her hips to an angle that makes them both gasp.

The familiar heat begins to coil in her belly and she reaches up to hold Killian’s face, drowning in the sounds of their shared heartbeats, stuttered breaths, and the slide of skin against skin. When they come they come together, neither’s release triggering the other but instead a perfect sync of rise and fall, flying apart and stitched back together in one fell swoop.

Killian finally allows his eyes to close and he leans in, pressing his face into the crook of her neck while she plays with the ends of his hair, savoring the pleasant hum vibrating over their nerves as they come down.

When he finally pulls back they end up as they started, on their sides and wrapped up in each other. His eyes are shining when she reaches up to trace the scar on his cheek, her fingers drifting down to the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of a sated smile.

“I know there’s more where that came from,” she says when she’s caught her breath, and his answering smirk is playful and just a tiny bit smug. “But just for a minute, can we?...”

He instantly softens. “Of course, love.” He reaches up to take her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips and kissing them one-by-one before laying her hand on the sheets between them, tracing lazy circles across her palm.

Their skin is cooling in the slightly-chilled air of the bedroom but the look in his eyes warms her through as his fingers continue to play across her hand and eventually settle on her wrist, just over her pulse. They exchange a knowing smile as the rush comes, that unmistakable wave of sweetness and love that always raises goosebumps on her skin.

There are no nightmares to share when they finally drift off. Only good dreams.

 

* * *

 

They wake at almost the same time the next morning, still snuggled in close, noses nearly touching. They don’t speak, content to just watch each other’s faces and listen to their hearts beat in sync while the light streaming in through the curtains slowly grows brighter. Killian’s hand finds its way to her chest, his thumb tapping a soft rhythm into her skin as he meets her eyes with a sad smile. They don’t need to talk, not really, when there’s only one thing to say.

_I’m not ready for this._

They’re jolted out of the silence by Emma’s alarm clock and she doesn't hesitate to yank the cord from the wall, throwing the device halfway across the room. She sighs and looks down at Killian, who rubs at his eyes tiredly. “You take first shower, love. I’ll go make coffee.”

Breakfast is another silent, stilted affair -- neither of them have any kind of appetite, and the food all tastes like sawdust to Emma anyway. Eventually she drops her fork and sighs. “I hate this.”

Killian just looks at her helplessly, at just as much of a loss as she is. He shakes his head and glances at the clock on the stove; they both need to leave soon, Emma to the station and Killian to help Belle in the library.

“Well,” he finally says, “I suppose we should get started.”

She takes his hand and they both stand, shuffling awkwardly until they’re facing one another. His eyes are trained to his feet and Emma’s are locked on their joined fingers, and she knows she should say something, anything, just get the whole thing over with, but the words won’t come as she feels his heartbeat speed up.

“Emma.”

“Hm?”

“The first morning we were back. You -- we were standing right here and you -- “ his words falter and her heart aches when she realizes what he’s trying to ask. “You remember what you did for me?”

She nods, her throat tight. “Yeah.”

His gaze meets hers then, and he gives an embarrassed half-smile. “I’d very much like to feel that one more time.”

Her exhale is sharp and she can’t even speak, not when he asks her for this. She simply nods, reaching up to hold his face with shaking hands. She keeps her eyes on his and breathes deep, settling herself before reaching inside and pushing, pressing every last bit of love she can into his skin.

His mouth falls open at the sensation but he somehow gives back just as good as he gets, warmth and light flowing into her palms and then deeper, swirling through her and settling light as a feather in her chest.

He smiles as they breathe together, their heartbeats slowing in tandem as the rush calms into a graceful warmth, and his eyes fall closed.

“Bloody brilliant,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Swan.”

The last of her composure cracks as she looks at him, and she drops her hands and steps back. Everything in her screams that she can’t -- not won’t, but _can’t_ \-- let go of this connection, no matter how dangerous or impractical, and the tears she’s been fighting all morning finally begin to fall.

“Sorry,” she mutters, wiping at her nose. “I just really, _really_ don’t want to do this.”

“Nor I, love.” He steps in even closer than before, silently willing her to look up at him. “But please don’t cry. If you don’t stop I won’t be able to -- _bloody hell_.” His eyes, so clear and bright, suddenly well up, and he isn’t fast enough to catch the tears before they fall to his cheeks.

“Well,” he says, swiping the moisture away with his thumb, “that’s new.”

Their eyes meet again and he looks so surprised, almost _amused_ that she can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of her. He grins and wipes at his eyes once more, shaking his head and chuckling with her as she leans in, resting her forehead on his collarbone while his hand rubs soothing circles between her shoulderblades.

They stay like that for a while, holding on to the brief moment of levity as long as they can. Emma finally looks up at him and smiles, reaching up to catch a stray tear at the corner of his eye. “Well, there’s another argument for ditching the tether. You’d be a mess any time I watch a sad movie.”

His expression softens. “I don’t mind.”

 _God._ “You can’t say things like that if we’re gonna do this.” She steps back and grabs his hand. “Come on, before I lose my nerve.”

His answering sigh is resigned, but he doesn’t argue. “All right, love.” He leans in one last time, brushing his lips over hers and lingering just long enough for them to share a breath while their fingers interlace. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She glances down at the book, reviewing the spell one more time. “Okay,” she says on a shaky exhale, “this shouldn’t hurt, but brace yourself.”

He nods, and the affection and trust in his tiny smile steadies her while she grips at his hand. “We’ve weathered far worse storms, love. It’ll be all right.”

Her answering smile is a little misty, and she pushes one last burst of love into his palm before closing her eyes and saying the words.

 

* * *

 

Emma is right: it doesn’t hurt.

And yet it does.

She and Killian both stumble back with the force of it, like being pulled apart from the inside out. Fire flares in her veins and she can feel the tether yanked from her, sudden and surprising just as though she’d been punched in the stomach.

There’s no physical pain, but the hole clawed in her chest and the brutal weight of loneliness that settles there is worse than any injury she’s ever felt. It’s two decades of foster homes and eight years of one-night stands and empty apartments taking hold inside her, all at once, and in that moment it doesn’t matter that she has her son and her parents and the man she loves. She’s hollowed-out and used, the most visceral confirmation she’s ever had that she is needed and wanted and _loved_ violently torn from her.

She looks to Killian, gasping and frantic. He stares at her with wide, empty eyes, and _oh god_ if it’s like this for her it’s far worse for him, hundreds of years of abandonment and rejection resurfacing, his expression dazed and haunted. And now she can’t feel, can’t _know_ what’s going on in his head or his heart.

After everything, she’s only caused him more pain.

“Killian.” She’s not sure who steps in first but suddenly they’re crashing together, hands clenching for something they can’t hold, not anymore. They end up with her nose to his throat and his face buried in her hair, his arms so tight around her it’s painful.

“I’m sorry,” she says on a half-sob, her face buried into his skin. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls her in tighter. When she thinks she can finally breathe again she lifts her head, bringing her hand to rest over his chest.

The steady beat, the one that’s been such a constant since they’ve returned, is faint under her palm -- just as it would be for anyone else. She lifts her head to look at him, trying desperately to feel the beat that has kept them both grounded since she brought him back to life.

His broken expression tells her everything.

It’s gone.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just so you all don't yell at me again -- this is NOT the final chapter.

_It’s gone._

Emma’s hands clench around Killian’s shoulders as she closes her eyes, reaching inside herself for something, _any_ leftover trace of the tether to hang onto, anything to chase away the pain and doubt that so quickly filled the gaping hole in her chest. She finds none and wobbles where she stands, the near-brutal press of the curve of Killian’s hook in her lower back doing nothing to hold her steady as the adrenaline fades.

 _Killian_.

Her eyes fly open and he’s not looking at her, his gaze downcast and heartbroken. His hand, balled up so tightly in the back of her shirt, releases its grip and and finds its way to her chest. She waits and watches as his palm presses over her heart while he holds his breath. He clearly doesn’t find what he’s looking for, his face falling before he bites his lip against a ragged exhale.

He reaches up, his fingers a whisper against her cheek when he finally meets her eyes.

His hand is shaking.

She covers his hand with her own, her fingers twining with his as she tries to keep them both from falling apart.

“I didn’t think it’d be like this,” he croaks out, and her heart breaks all over again remembering the last time he’d said those words, awe and wonder and _happiness_ in his voice.

“Me either,” she whispers. “I knew it’d be bad, I just didn’t -- “

_I didn’t think I’d feel like an orphan all over again._

“Are you okay?” she asks, the absolute dumbest question she could possibly pose, but it’s not quite what she means, just an easier way to ask if he isn’t currently being destroyed from the inside out.

It takes everything in her not to cry when he mutely shakes his head in response. Her phone rings before she can say anything, and she impatiently yanks it from her back pocket only to see it’s her father calling.

She silences the phone and slides her arm behind Killian’s back, steering him towards the couch. He lets himself be led, his face blank as Emma gently urges him to sit down. “I’ll be right back, okay? If I don’t talk to my Dad he’ll show up here.”

“All right.” His voice is soft and empty, but at least he’s acknowledging her.

She brushes her thumb over his cheek, hoping her whispered “I’ll just be a minute” is enough, stepping out on her front porch and leaning against the front door for support. She dials her father back and he picks up on the first ring.

“Emma?”

“Hey.” Her voice betrays her and quakes on the word.

“What is it?” David asks, immediately alarmed by her tone. “You’re usually on time, so I just wanted to make sure… what’s wrong?”

“I don’t --” Emma nearly chokes on the words. “I’m not coming in today. We...” she trails off helplessly.

“What _happened_ yesterday? Are you two okay?”

“Not really,” she mutters.

“Emma, you’re scaring me.”

She closes her eyes, knowing she can’t put him off any longer.

“Dad,” she says, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry, we just…” She sighs, scrubbing her hand over her face. “When I split my heart with Killian, I inadvertently did a tethering spell. We could share feelings. That’s what happened.”

“....when Hook was hurt, you felt it, too,” David says, putting everything neatly together.

“Yeah. We didn’t just share pain, though.” She doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed anymore, doesn’t even care what her father might think or where his mind might go.

He surprises her. “Love, too?”

Her chest aches and she squeezes her eyes shut against the burning tears. “Yeah.”

She can hear him hesitate, and then, gently: “Emma, that might not be entirely safe. If you -- “

“I know,” she cuts him off bitterly. “I broke the tether this morning.”

“...oh. Are you…?”

“It _hurts_ , Dad,” she confesses, the tears falling freely now. “I didn’t know it would hurt so much. And Killian is… I need to get back to him. I think it’s worse for him. God, he can barely _talk_ , I need to -- “

“Go be with him,” he tells her firmly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just… can you call Belle? Killian was supposed to go to the library today. Tell her he’s sick or something, I don’t want anyone else to know what’s going on. And Henry’s with Regina right now, can you -- he’s supposed to come back tonight, but I can’t let him see us like this, he’ll -- “

“I’ll handle it,” he assures her. “Take some time, Emma. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

She sniffles, feeling small and pathetic. “Okay. I… thanks, Dad. I don’t know what I’d -- thanks.”

“Of course,” he says, soft and understanding. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t even try to compose herself before heading back inside, her need to be with Killian more important than hiding her tears from him.

He’s still on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around his midsection, his face white and features pinched.

He glances up when she approaches, his face less blank than before but more pained now, and he reacts visibly when he sees the tears on her face. Even after everything there’s sympathy and care in his gaze, and her hand finds his face before she even realizes she’s moving.

“Killian.” Her voice breaks on his name.

He pulls her down and suddenly she’s in his lap, her hands gripping and pulling him in as close as possible, her arms wrapped over his shoulders and his face pressed into her neck.

It’s a last-ditch effort, a bone-crushing embrace as if they can feel the connection again if they can only press hard enough.

They stay like that, her cheek resting atop his head while her fingers play in the softness of his hair. Killian’s breathing gradually slows and his grip around her waist loosens slightly. He doesn’t relax, not really, but he settles into her arms more, a grim kind of acceptance coming over him.

“All you all right, love?”

“No,” she scoffs. “No, I’m not. I just thought we’d feel like we did before, not…” _gutted_ , she doesn’t say. “Do you -- do you think this is just temporary?”

His hand briefly tightens around her back. “I don’t know.”

Emma sighs and slides off his lap, settling next to him on the couch and leaning her head on his shoulder. His arm is around her immediately, the tiniest of comforts.

Communication had been effortless for them since they returned from the Underworld, the simple, straightforward sharing of emotions eliminating the necessity of talking so much. Emma had relished it, never having been great with words, not like Killian, and even as easily as he could read her before it was a relief to know she’d never have to struggle to explain herself to him, or he to her -- they just _knew_.

Now, she flounders. She snuggles into him tighter, the realization hitting her nearly as hard as the physical loss of the tether.

She swallows hard and forces herself to finally speak. “I, uh, talked to Dad. He’s handling things for a few days. Belle knows you’re not coming in.”

“Does he know… everything?”

“Just the bare bones. You know him; he’d have showed up here if I tried to put him off any more. Yesterday really freaked him out. I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay, love,” he whispers into her hair. “It was kind of him to help.”

“Yeah, it was,” she agrees, her eyes welling up again. _I have family now_ , she repeats in her head, a mantra to keep herself steady. “I… still don’t know what to do.” She lifts her head to look at him, but his eyes are still downcast. “This is gonna be worse if we don’t talk. So talk to me, Killian. Please.”

He looks so lost in that moment, and Emma wants nothing more than to be able to press love into his skin again, give him an anchor, _anything_. He chews on his lip for a too-long moment before speaking. “There’s a lot going on in my head right now, Emma. I’m going to need some time to parse it all,” he finally admits.

It stings, but it’s still honest, exactly what she’d asked for. “I understand. Do you -- do you want some time alone?”

“I may go for a walk to the docks later. But not just yet.” The last few words are spoken into her scalp, a light kiss to punctuate them.

“Okay,” she says, relaxing into him further. And then, as an afterthought: “Good.”

* * *

 

She wakes with a start, blinking against the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows. She’s still on the couch, a blanket draped over her, but a chill runs through her when she realizes Killian isn’t next to her.

A note waits for her on the coffee table in his familiar looping script.

_Emma,_

_Forgive me for not waking you, but you hardly budged when I got up and I didn’t have the heart to deprive you of any rest._

_I’ve gone for that walk. Should you need me, you know you can find me near the water. I’ll return before sundown._

_Pleasant dreams, love._

_-K_

Emma smiles, just a little, until the absence of Killian’s heartbeat makes itself clear, taunting her for allowing even the smallest of happy thoughts. It hollows out her chest even further when she passes the entryway and sees his wool coat and scarf hanging up in their usual place, no longer needed now that he’s lost Emma’s susceptibility to the cold.

She clears the table of their aborted breakfast in a fog, blank and empty and mechanical as she throws away uneaten food and dumps the dishes in the sink.

It’s only when she starts scrubbing that her mind begins to drift -- to Killian, always to Killian -- in the most insidious of ways. Flashes of watching him die in a field of flowers, of running him through with a sword, of seeing the ghost of him in a graveyard, beaten and broken and bloodied.

It floods her mind all at once, every painful thought she’d been able to push away so easily with a shared heartbeat or the brush of his hand, love and reassurance burning under his skin. Thoughts she’d been able to drown out with sex and lust and discovery, countless hours with him above and below and inside her.

She almost doesn’t hear the shattering of the dish under her hands, but the sharp pain of tearing flesh jolts her from her haze. She looks down at the gash it’s left in her palm, several inches long and bleeding profusely. She hisses when she runs it under the water, yanking her hand back and grabbing a dishtowel to stop the flow of blood.

It’s only when she heads for the first-aid kit that she belatedly realizes it’s not necessary, swearing under her breath and healing herself in an angry flash of magic, wiping away the last of the blood and throwing the towel in the trash.

She returns to the sink and grips the ledge of the counter, dropping her head and trying to steady herself, shaking as the adrenaline wears off. She jumps at the sound of the front door opening, and as much as she wants to fall into Killian’s arms she’s hit by a fresh wave of despair -- she could always sense when he was coming home, before.

His footsteps approach her slowly, and she sighs with relief when his arms slide around her, pulling her back against him while his lips find her shoulder. “Hello, love. How was your nap?”

She doesn’t answer, just leans back into him. “How was your walk?”

He ignores her question as well. “What happened here?”

“I broke a dish,” she mutters. “Mostly not on purpose.”

He hums in understanding, his stubble scratching against her cheek. “I think the dishes can wait for another time.”

“Yeah.” He only resists for a moment when she pulls out of his arms, her fingers lingering over his hand before she steps away. “I’m gonna go change.” She’s still in her work clothes, that morning feeling a million miles away.

He follows her up the stairs, likely to do the same, and she finds herself reaching back for his hand before she realizes she’s done it. It’s so odd to be in the same space with him and not feel him running through her, no heartbeat or swelling emotions to keep her afloat. His hand is a poor substitute but she grips it tightly, finding herself loath to let go once she’s standing in front of her dresser.

He turns her gently, finally untangling his fingers from hers as she faces him. He keeps his eyes down as he reaches for the top button on her shirt, undoing it with practiced ease and working his way down, his touch methodical but tender when his fingers brush against her skin.

His hand skims over her ribs when he’s finished, his forehead just touching hers and his breath hot against her lips. It’s everything she needs but not nearly enough, not when she knows how this can feel when they share _everything_.

“Emma,” he whispers, and suddenly his hand is behind her neck as his mouth devours hers, the dresser digging painfully into her back as he presses himself against her.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he’s moving against her and she doesn’t _want_ gentle, her hands gripping at his hips and pulling him closer to her through a brutal clash of tongues and teeth. She’s hardly able to rip the coat from his shoulders but she manages to wrench it away as he sucks a bruise into her shoulder. She doesn’t even try with his vest, ripping it open and not caring as the buttons go flying, his shirt meeting a similar fate as they both groan at the feeling of skin against skin.

She shoves him back, fully shedding her shirt and stripping off her bra as she pushes him towards the bed, climbing over him and ripping at his belt, yanking it open and pulling his jeans down, swearing when she has to remove his boots before stripping him bare. He removes his hook and brace while she works, the device clattering to the floor.

She’s barely climbed back over him when he flips them over, and she’s suddenly aware of how much of his strength he’s held back whenever they’ve been in bed, his hand making quick work of her pants as he drags the fabric down her legs and tosses it aside, coming back up to press her into the pillows with a brutal kiss, his thigh shoving between her legs and pressing in, practically begging her to roll her hips against him.

She complies, her back straining with the arch it makes against him. It feels good, of _course_ it does, but it’s not _enough_ , not after everything, the emptiness left by the tether rendering the feeling shallow and painfully inadequate.

His mouth is back at her neck, no trace of his usual care as he sucks at her skin and bites down with more pressure than he’s ever used with her. She’s desperate for it, leaning up into it and grabbing at the back of his skull, pulling him down to her even more forcefully.

“What do you need, Swan?” he murmurs against her skin between the sharp little bites he’s peppering her with, and she gives as good as she gets, her nails raking down his back far harder than could ever be pleasant, but he simply moans against her skin when she digs in.

“Just make me _feel_ something, God,” she breathes out, arching against him, grabbing hard enough to bruise.

He pins her down with his weight, his teeth sharp against her breast as his hand finds her clit. His fingers are rough but she pushes her hips into it, straining for the feel she’d grown so used to with the tether, for any sense of Killian’s pleasure running through her as his cock presses against her thigh.

It’s an impossible reach and she groans in frustration, trying to chase a high she _knows_ she’ll never have again. He lets out a similar noise when her hand finds his cock, rough strokes that simply can’t compare to the shared pleasure they’re both aching for.

She guides to her and he buries himself inside with a sharp thrust, the force of it pushing her up the bed and the mattress squeaking in protest. His mouth finds hers and she bites at his lip, giving it a quick tug before pulling one leg up, encouraging him to slide his arm underneath, folding her up and nearly pinning her knee to her chest.

He knows what she wants and gives it to her, quick, harsh strokes just on the edge of painful. His face is buried in her throat and she grips the back of his neck, digging in with her nails as he pounds into her.

“Harder,” she begs on a stilted breath and he complies, bearing down on her with his full weight. The additional stretch on her thigh opens her up to him even further and she gasps at the force of his thrusts, at how deep he pushes inside her.

It’s not enough. Emma knows she won’t be able to come, not like this, numbed and hollow even as he fills her up, over and over again. She hangs on tight and lets him have her, tears pooling in her eyes through sweat and desperation and harsh moans.

The sound he makes when he comes is almost pained, short and gruff and unsatisfied. He’s gasping as he leans back enough to free her leg, her muscles screaming in protest as she stretches out underneath him. He doesn’t collapse on her, holding himself up as he lifts his head, touching his forehead to hers while his eyes remain squeezed shut.

“Emma,” he says, struggling to catch his breath. “You didn’t…?”

She shakes her head.

“ _Bloody hell_.” He opens his eyes, guilt and concern all over his face. “I’m sorry, love. I’d gotten so used to -- let me -- “

She catches his hand on the way down, knowing it’s hopeless. “Please don’t. I don’t think I can right now.”

He collapses next to her, pressing his face to her cheek. “Emma,” he says helplessly.

“I know,” she sighs, turning her head and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, trying not to let her disappointment show. “I’m gonna get cleaned up. I’ll be right back.”

She can feel his eyes on her as she pads her way to the bathroom. She’s shocked by what she sees in the mirror, angry red welts scattered over her neck, shoulders and breasts. It’s nothing she didn’t ask for and she knows Killian’s back likely looks the same, her nails harsh enough to have drawn blood, but the longing in her chest for what they had just the night before threatens to split her in two.

She turns on the sink and stares down at the water for in a daze before remembering to splash her face and grab a washcloth, cleaning herself as gently as she can while the soreness sets in.

Killian’s already dressed in his usual henley and sweatpants when she returns to the bedroom, staring down at an open drawer by her dresser. He wordlessly hands her a tank top and flannel pants, his jaw tightening when he sees what he’s done to her skin.

“Hey,” she whispers after she’s pulled on the clothing, “c’mere.”

He comes to her arms easily, gently cradling the back of her head as she presses her cheek to his chest. “I’m so sorry, love,” he tells her again. “I shouldn’t have -- “

“Shhh. I asked for it. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” he says, soft against her hair.

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” She takes his hand and leads him back to bed, propping pillows against the headboard and motioning for him to sit. She leans against him once he’s situated, his arm automatically going around her shoulder as she settles into his side. He waits for her, knowing she wants to talk, giving her time to figure out how to start.

“So,” she finally says, “were you able to parse anything on your walk?”

He sighs. “I thought I’d be able to. My thoughts didn’t agree.”

“What _did_ you think about?”

“Emma, I don’t know if I should -- “

“Please.”

He swallows, and when he finally speaks, his voice is thick. “The Underworld.”

There’s a novel in those two words, several lifetimes of pain and suffering in his voice. She doesn’t ask him to elaborate and he doesn’t need to. “So did I,” she admits. “When you were gone, all I could think about was you dying, and then how you were when I finally found you, and -- “ she stops when his arm tightens around her shoulder.

“I think…” she ventures when she’s gathered herself, struggling for the right words. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘self-medicating’?”

“Can’t say I have, love.”

“It’s when people who have a hard time… coping, I guess? Dealing with something difficult, and using drugs or alcohol to do it.”

He hums in response, understanding setting in. “Aye, I know what you mean.” He laughs mirthlessly. “I found myself wishing for my flask at the docks.”

“I think the tether was kind of like that.”

“Are you sure about that, Swan? The tether was…” he can’t finish but she knows what he means, reluctant to think of shared love as anything but a gift.

“I know, I loved it, too. But think about it -- did you ever spend more than two seconds thinking about the Underworld since we got back? I know I didn’t. And now that we don’t have magic or sex to distract us, it’s hitting us all at once.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he concedes, resignation in his voice. “And... to continue your analogy, have you ever seen a drunkard immediately after he’s given up spirits?”

 _Fuck_. She hadn’t considered that. “We’re going through withdrawal.”

“Aye.”

They lie there quietly, lost in thought for awhile, the only sound their soft breaths and rustle of clothing when they pull each other in tighter.

“I’m sorry,” She finally whispers.

He lifts his head to look down at her, his eyebrow raised in confusion. “Emma?”

“If I had a better handle on my magic I wouldn’t have made the damn tether in the first place. And then we wouldn’t be… here. We wouldn’t have -- “

“ _Emma_ ,” he cuts her off, “listen to me. I wouldn’t trade those weeks with the tether for anything. _Anything_ , do you understand me?”

“But -- “

“No. We’ve got enough to deal with at the moment without you feeling guilt over something that’s not your fault. Don’t ever apologize for finding a way for us to share what we’ve shared.”

She can’t find it in her to protest, not when he speaks with such conviction it knocks the breath out of her. She just nods, blinking back tears as he leans down to kiss her, his mouth soft, the press of his lips soothing her ragged nerves. She drops her head to his chest when he pulls back, his hand caressing her shoulder with the gentlest of touches.

“We’ll get through this, love. We always do.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, a chapter from Killian's POV. This contains a description of a panic attack, so please read with care if that sort of thing is difficult for you.
> 
> One more chapter to go after this! Thanks for sticking with me.

It takes a week for the tremors in his hand to stop.

It gets worse before it gets better. The third day is the most difficult, the two of them shaking so badly they can hardly function. David comes by when Emma doesn’t answer her phone, and it’s a job to talk him out of shuttling them both to the hospital right then and there.

“We’ll be okay, Dad. We’re just a couple of addicts in withdrawal,” she tells him blandly, even though her eyelid twitches as she speaks, sweat breaking out on her forehead.

David puts them both to bed and vows to bring Regina into it if they’re not better the next morning. It thankfully doesn’t come to that after a shivering, sleepless night of clinging to one another. It’s probably better for them that they didn’t sleep, as bad as the nightmares have been, but by the time the sun comes up it’s clear that the worst of it is over.

Every day Emma’s touch becomes more soothing, something a little more like it was before, not quite as shallow and unsatisfying as when the tether was first broken.

(He tries not to think of the tether and how it felt when she put her hands to his face, her love flowing through him and eyes so, so bright. Maybe in time the memory won’t hurt so terribly, the _longing_ to feel it again so intense it renders him physically ill.)

When she takes his hand on the seventh day and smiles at him, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, now holding steady in her palm - he smiles back.

It only hurts a little. And what’s that, really, after all he’s been through?

* * *

 

It takes twelve days for Emma to go back to work.

All of their physical symptoms are gone, have been for a few days now, and Killian can’t think of any reason to object when she brings it up.

“I dunno, I just need to be out there _doing_ something. I’m going stir-crazy in here.”

He nods, staring down at his food, the table seemingly too big for the both of them. “Aye, I know what you mean.”

He really, really doesn’t. A previous version of himself might have, but not now.

She looks at him strangely but doesn’t push, her face finally settling into a tiny smile, one that says she knows he’s lying but will let it slide for the time being. He loves her all the more for it, the grace of her patience and understanding that he knows he doesn’t deserve, and he can’t stop himself from reaching over to grab her hand.

She squeezes his fingers gently. “And I’d really like for Henry to come back, too. Not every night, but…”

“Of course, love. Does he - does he know?”

She shakes her head. “Dad was as vague as possible about it, just told him that we’ve been through a lot and needed some time alone. We could have lied and said we had the flu or something but…” She sighs and leans back in her chair. It seems there are white lies all around their fractured little family, such as it is. “I just - I don’t know if this is something we can tell him. Not yet, anyway.”

Killian nods. “I don’t know what I could say to the boy. Though he’ll wonder why all of this is happening now, rather than when we first got back. As far as he knew, everything was perfect.”

“Yeah,” she says after a too-long pause. “It was.”

* * *

It takes nineteen days for him to realize the nightmares won’t fade anytime soon.

His insomnia is both a gift and a curse - he has less time for long nights where he’s tormented by Hades again and again, nights when he’s consumed by the darkness and makes Emma cry with with a few vicious, carefully-placed words and _enjoys_ it, back in the skin of the Dark One only to wake, shaking and guilt-ridden and trying his best to stay quiet so as not to wake her.

He’s not much better at pushing the thoughts away when he’s awake but at least he’s _aware_ when it happens. When his mind drifts he can stop and look around, see his home and his loved ones and know that it’s _over_ , that he’s safe now, that _they_ are safe.

But then he’s never been much good at being rational when his emotions are involved.

And he is tired, so utterly, bloody exhausted. Emma notices, of course, finding him in the kitchen with coffee ready and waiting every morning no matter how early she sets her alarm. She brushes her thumb over the bags under his eyes and kisses him softly every time, the gentle squeeze of her hand begging him to talk to her.

If only he knew what to say.

* * *

 It takes a month for Emma to try to initiate sex.

They didn’t dare attempt it while they recovered from the loss of the tether, not after that disastrous first night where he left her marked and bruised and unsatisfied. The image of her afterwards still haunts him, welts marring her perfect skin and her eyes downcast as she tried to hide her disappointment and frustration.

She catches him just as he’s changing for bed, stepping behind him, her arms sliding over his bare torso while she presses her lips to the base of his neck.

“Hey,” she whispers, warm breaths skittering across his shoulders, pulling him in close. He leans into it and covers her hand with his and just lets himself _feel_. He shivers for the first time in so long, not with the hellish symptoms of withdrawal but at the softness of her touch, and allows her to turn him in her arms.

“Hey,” he replies when his nose touches hers, dipping his head to nudge in closer. She smiles, bigger than he’s seen in weeks, her hands sliding up his chest as she kisses him softly.

He lets himself get lost in it for awhile as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, treating him with a gentleness that would be frustrating if he didn’t need it so badly. They’re rarely far from each other at home, always holding hands or bumping shoulders or sleeping spooned against one another, but the intimacy of this moment startles him, her arms wrapped around him with the softness of her lips promising more.

His mind betrays him when she pushes in closer, her hand at the back of his head bringing him in tighter as she hums into his mouth and presses her hips flush with his. An unwelcome flash of the desperate, pained noises she made the last time they were so close overcomes him, and for as wonderful as she feels in his arms all he can see are her broken eyes and bruises sucked into her skin.

The vision makes him jerk back with a start, so much so that Emma thinks she’s hurt him somehow.

“Killian? What did I - what happened?” Her grip on his forearms does little to settle him down.

“Sorry, love,” he says, shaking his head as if it will shake loose that insidious mental image. “You didn’t do anything, I - “

“Are you okay?”

He’s certain his smile is more of a grimace. “I’m fine.” Another lie, another one she willingly lets go for his sake. “I just - I don’t think I can do this tonight.”

“Hey,” she says, wrapping her arms around him, “don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

It seems they’re both getting some experience with little white lies.

* * *

 It takes a six weeks for Emma to mention that he hasn’t left the house since she’s gone back to work.

She brings it up gently over dinner when Henry is at Regina’s. “So what did you do today?”

_I tried to sleep in and failed. I tried to read a book and failed. I tried to muster up the will to go for a walk and failed. I’m making you worry._

“I’m afraid I haven’t been very productive lately,” he admits, a vague enough answer to the question he knows she really wants to ask.

“Hey, I’m not asking you to get a 9 to 5 or anything,” she teases, going for levity but falling a bit flat. “I just… maybe you should get out of the house for a little while.”

He knows she means well, knows that she’s _right_ , but his face burns in shame nonetheless. He hides it as best he can, swallowing a forkful of food to settle the lump in his throat. “Aye, I should.”

“Wanna come to the station tomorrow? Patrols are kind of boring these days. I could use the company.”

He freezes where he sits. Emma always jokes that he is better with words than she is, teasing him about his vocabulary and rolling her eyes at his intentionally-florid sentences. But for all her bluster there’s not a more perfect thing she could have said in the moment, an unexpected lifeline when he feels so close to drowning.

He smiles, and loves her more than his words could ever express. “I’d like that.”

* * *

 It takes forty-nine days for Killian to sleep through the night.

No nightmares, no frustratingly-short fits of slumber bookended by tossing and turning, just a glorious eight hours of deep, dreamless sleep. He wakes lighter than he’s felt in ages, and he smiles a little when he sees the empty spot on the bed next to him. He’s actually managed to out-sleep Emma for once.

She hasn’t yet left for work when he pads downstairs, and she lingers longer than usual when he kisses her in the kitchen. “Sleep well?” she asks knowingly, turning to pour him a mug of coffee.

She stills when he steps behind her, his arms folding over her midsection while he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Very.” He presses another kiss to her temple and she leans back into him, a gratifying weight against his chest as he nuzzles against her cheek.

“Mmmm, don’t tease me like that. I have to leave in a minute,” she murmurs, tilting her head when he drags his lips down her throat.

“Sorry, love.” He grins into her skin, not sorry at all.

“Tonight?” she asks, the hopeful note in her voice causing a pang in his chest. They haven’t tried, not since their last ruinous attempt, and he suspects she’s been waiting for him to bring up the subject rather than broach it on her own.

With her here in his arms, softness and strength pressed against him and his heart lighter than it’s felt in weeks, he doesn’t know what the bloody hell he’s been waiting for. “Aye, tonight,” he promises, punctuating his words with a final kiss to her shoulder before he lets her go.

“Got any plans for today?” she asks as she grabs her jacket and hunts for her keys.

“I think the _Jolly_ misses me. I might have to take her out for a bit.”

Emma stops her search and looks up at him. Her smile is unsteady but she looks _happy_ , like he’s finally home after a long journey and she’s seeing him for the first time. “I think she missed you, too,” she says softly.

Their parting kiss holds more than a little promise.

~

The breeze off the water lights him from the inside out, his muscles warmed with exercise and only protesting a bit from disuse as he hoists the sail and raises the anchor.

Something about sailing solo always makes Killian feel more alive, to know that the vast and beautiful ship beneath him is under only his command, and as Storybrooke grows smaller behind him he can’t help but smile as he turns to the horizon, salt in the air and the wind whipping through his hair.

He locks the wheel and leans against the railing for a while, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and watching the birds fly overhead.

 _This_. This is what his future looks like, _this_ is what he fought so hard for in the Underworld. Days on the sea knowing he can come home to Emma, to Henry, to his strange little group of family and friends in this sleepy little town that feels more and more like home with each passing day.

It only takes one little piece of rigging.

A hook, of all things, not quite secured and gone unnoticed by Killian, until he walks past and it snags the collar of his coat, yanking him back, the surprise of it nearly taking him off his feet.

In an instant he’s back in Hades’ grip, strung up on a hook and hung over a river that threatens to end him, no blissful, pleasant blackness but an eternity of torment awaiting him, drawing closer with every inch he drops.

He manages to untangle himself from the rigging before his hand can go numb, a sudden rush of pins and needles as his throat tightens, his desperate, gasping attempts to pull in air not nearly enough. His chest seizes with the sudden, overwhelming fear of being unable to breathe, his heart beating so brutally it feels as if it will burst.

He shakes and gasps and his lungs are too small as he sinks down to the deck, wrapping his arms around himself, and there’s no one there, the town a tiny speck on the horizon and he can’t _breathe_ , he can’t _see_ , his vision tunneling to a tiny pinprick of light.

For ten minutes Killian genuinely believes he is dying.

He, of all people, knows what it feels like.

He’s almost afraid to believe it when it begins to fade, when his chest starts to open up and he can pull air into his lungs again, a wave of dizziness rushing over him at the sudden rush of oxygen. His vision slowly widens, first revealing the deck, and then the rails, and finally the water, the too-bright sun scorching his eyes as he blinks against it.

His heart continues to race but he can breathe now, can _see_ again, and he nearly falls over when he tries to stand. He makes it through sheer force of will, stumbling to the railing and leaning over before becoming violently ill, spilling the contents of his stomach over the railing.

It’s another half-hour before he can move from his spot. He makes his way back to the harbor in a fog, unsure how he even manages to dock the ship and force his legs to carry him home, centuries of muscle memory taking over as his mind fails him. When the front door shuts behind him he finds he can’t remember how he arrived there blinking, wearily at his surroundings and stumbling to the couch before collapsing.

He is utterly exhausted but still buzzing, the adrenaline finally fading, and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep. It’s a useless endeavor, and he eventually finds himself leaning against the arm of the sofa, staring glassy-eyed into space as the shadows on the walls slowly shift with the setting sun.

He’s startled when the front door opens, jumping where he sits, and Killian has never been more grateful that Henry is staying with Regina that night as Emma walks in.

“Hey,” she calls with a smile, tossing her keys on the side table and stepping into the living room. “How was the - _Killian_? Jesus, are you okay?”

He’s not even said a word but he knows he must look a fright; Emma’s kneeling before him in an instant, her hand soft and cool against his cheek.

“I’ll be all right,” he says, grimacing at the hoarse sound of his voice.

“What _happened_?”

He doesn’t even bloody _know_ , can’t even begin to explain, and he falters. “I… had to cut my outing short. I had a bit of an… episode.”

She bites her lip and studies his face, lines of worry creasing her forehead. She smooths her thumb across his cheekbone and he closes his eyes against her touch, the first thing that’s grounded him since he lost his damned mind out on the water.

“Hey,” she whispers, “it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

It feels like the biggest lie yet.

* * *

 It takes eight weeks for Henry to ask Killian if he’ll take him out sailing.

Killian can’t even look him in the eye when he says no.

* * *

It takes nine weeks for Henry to talk to Killian about it.

He hasn’t gone back on his ship, not since he had a bloody breakdown over a simple piece of rigging, but on the days when he can pull himself out of bed he often finds himself at the docks, staring out at the water while he lets his thoughts get away from him. It’s the only place he can find some semblance of peace, the demons flying from his head as he stares at the waves and lets his mind go blissfully blank.

He doesn’t hear Henry approaching, and he’s startled when the boy sidles up to him, leaning against the railing next to him but keeping his gaze on the sea.

“Hey,” he says, simple and easy like Killian hasn’t been a bloody mess around him for the last few months.

“Hello, lad.”

They don’t talk for some minutes, and Killian is grateful for the silence though he knows something is coming, a conversation he doesn’t want to have, doesn’t even know _how_ to have, especially not with Henry, someone who doesn’t need to concern himself with his current brand of nonsense.

Killian speaks first. “Did your mother send you to check on me?”

“No. But I thought I’d find you here.”

“Aye, you can most days.”

Another silence, this one a bit easier, something in Henry’s demeanor calming him. He must get it from his mother.

“You know,” Henry finally says, still not looking at Killian, “before my Mom came to Storybrooke, my other mom sent me to Doctor Hopper.”

 _Bloody hell_. “Henry, I - “

“No, it’s okay.” He shrugs. “She was still pretty much the Evil Queen at that point. I knew what was going on and she used Archie to try and convince me I was crazy.”

Killian turns his head to stare at the boy, but his gaze remains trained on the sea. “Archie didn’t know what was going on, either. He’s actually a nice guy.”

He’d tried his best to hide his current state from Henry and knew he hadn’t been entirely successful, but for him to have failed so thoroughly that a _child_ would suggest he see a doctor for his troubles - it takes everything inside of him not to walk away at that moment, to run, to never have this conversation with anyone, _ever_. He swallows hard and finds his voice, shaky as it is.

“The good doctor and I have a bit of history, none of it pleasant. I doubt he’d be happy to see me.” Killian’s prepared to flat-out lie to Henry, to tell him he truly did torture the doctor rather than simply threaten him just to end the conversation then and there, but the boy surprises him.

He actually _laughs_. “That’s not what I meant. I always got to my appointments early, so I’d have to sit in the waiting room before I got to see him. He had pamphlets and books lying all over the place. Y’know, informational stuff?”

Killian nods but doesn’t quite follow. Henry continues.

“Anyway, some of them were about things like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, stuff like that. And some were about depression and anxiety. I know they were just stupid little pamphlets, but there was some interesting stuff in there.”

 _Schizophrenia_ and _bipolar_ are unfamiliar terms to him. Depression and anxiety are not. “Like what?” Killian asks, his voice so low he’s not sure Henry even hears him.

“There was one thing they always said, and it really stuck with me, especially when all the adults around me were trying to tell me I was making things up. It’s that it’s _normal_.”

“What?”

Henry finally looks at him then, a half-smile on his face. “When you’re going through something that’s really rough, it’s normal to get depressed about it.”

Killian looks down, unable to look Henry in the eye and knowing the sight of the waves can’t help him. “You shouldn’t worry yourself with all this.”

“Of _course_ I should!”

The strength of Henry’s response surprises him, his head snapping up in shock.

“Look, Killian. You’ve been through a lot, okay? And I know something happened to you after you hurt your wrist and I don’t know what it is, and I know you don’t want to talk to me about it, or that it’s adult stuff, or whatever. That’s fine, I get it. But don’t tell me not to care about you, okay?”

Killian suddenly can’t breathe.

“All I’m trying to say is it’s okay if you’re _not_ okay. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine, or feel bad about it, or anything.”

His eyes fall closed then and he knows if he looks at Henry he won’t be able to compose himself, forcing back the moisture that stings behind the lids. He forces himself to take one, two deep breaths, struggling against the sudden weight on his chest, stunned by the love and compassion and _understanding_ just offered to him. When he opens his eyes he keeps them on the ocean, desperate for words but finding none.

He settles for reaching out, sliding his arm over Henry’s shoulders and pulling him into his side. The boy - not a boy anymore, Killian tells himself, a young man - reciprocates, his hand a solid, comforting weight on his shoulder.

“When did you get so smart, lad?” He doesn’t know how he gets the words out.

Henry’s smirk is just a little too familiar. “Runs in the family.” He pulls away after another quick squeeze to Killian’s shoulder. “Tell Mom I’ll be at Regina’s tonight for me?”

“Of course.”

“We should go sailing sometime soon, if you’re up for it.”

Killian smiles and drops his head, his heart suddenly too full. “I’d like that.”

“Cool. I’ll see you around.”

He’s only a few steps away when Killian speaks again. “Henry?”

He stops and turns. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He grins, the expression turning him back into the little boy Killian first met. “Anytime.”

~

Killian has to take time to compose himself before walking home. The sun is low on the horizon by the time he reaches the front door, the house quiet when he steps inside.

“Emma?” he calls to no answer. There’s a light on upstairs, though, filtering out into the hallway at the top of the stairs. “Emma?” he tries again, making his way up, worry settling in his chest when there’s still no response. “Are you here, love?”

He finds her in their bedroom, sitting atop the comforter with an electronic device - _laptop_ , his brain supplies - open in front of her. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her shoulders are hunched, her lip caught between her teeth and her eyes wet.

He’s at her side in an instant. “Love, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, a humorless laugh escaping her. “Sorry, I just…”

“What is it?” Killian glances at the screen, a simple blue-and-white page filled with text. There’s a bolded line in the middle of the page, larger and brighter than the rest.

 _Helping a loved one deal with emotional and psychological trauma_.

“Emma,” he says, his stomach dropping. “What are you…?”

“This wasn’t me,” she says, her eyes still trained on the screen. “This is Henry’s computer.”

“What?”

“I saw him looking at this earlier, and he slammed the thing shut before I could see what was on the screen. I don’t think he wanted me to see. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t looking at anything he’s not supposed to, so when he left I looked at his internet history.” She sniffs and gestures in front of her.

“You’ve a very thoughtful young man for a son, Emma. You should be proud of him.”

She turns to look at him, wiping furiously at her eyes. “I am. Did he… did he talk to you?”

“Aye.” Killian swallows hard and lets his eyes drift back to the words on the screen.

_Be patient and understanding._

_Don’t pressure your loved one into talking but be available if they want to talk._

_Don’t take the trauma symptoms personally._

“Very smart indeed,” he murmurs.

“What did he say to you?” Emma’s voice is so small, almost _guilty_.

“He… he told me I don’t have to pretend to be fine around him. That’s it’s all right if I’m… struggling.”

Emma’s tears begin anew at his words. “I’m so sorry, Killian.”

“Whatever for?”

“It should have been me to tell you that. Not him, _God_ , he’s just a kid. I should have been the one to - “

“You’ve been wonderful, Emma,” he tells her, his arm sliding around her waist and pulling her closer to him. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

She can’t seem to stop, though. “I know you’ve been having a hard time, and I just haven’t been -  I’ve read this page ten times already and I’ve just been doing everything _wrong_. Trying to push you to do things when you weren’t ready, _fighting_ with you, god, you were _dead_ and you’ve been _tortured_ and I’m just going back to work like everything’s fine - “

“ _Emma_.” His hand finds her face, forcing her to look at him while he smiles gently at her, his thumb brushing away her tears. “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough.”

She laughs again on a half-sob, dropping her forehead to his. “So are you, you know.”

For the first time, he actually starts believing it.

* * *

 It takes Killian two and a half months to realize he’s frightened of his good days.

They come more often now, slowly catching up to the bad ones in number, but he still can’t shake the sense of dread that accompanies them. He’s always one simple moment - a word, an action, a flashback - away from having his short-lived happiness snatched from him, another tenuous bit of hope ripped away whenever his mind or body betrays him.

He finally tells Emma over a quiet dinner towards the end of a especially good day. He feels particularly stupid admitting it to her, but she surprises him.

“I know what you mean. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

His head snaps up and she smiles in understanding, reaching across the table to lace her fingers with his.

“I felt like that for a long time after I got to Storybrooke.” She shrugs. “Having Henry. My parents. You.” She squeezes his hand. “I wasn’t used to having good things in my life. They’re always taken from me.” Her voice catches on the last few words.

“Well,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up, “now when something’s taken from you, you simply take it right back.”

Her smile wavers but her words don’t. “Yeah, well. There are some things you just can’t live without.”

His (her, _their_ ) heart cracks and swells at her words, at the look on her face, at her hand in his, at the steadfast love that’s kept him going all these weeks since the loss of the tether. At how much he loves her.

At how much he wants her.

He stands, pulling her up with him, and wordlessly leads her up the stairs. Her face is curious but she goes along with him, their dinner left half-eaten on the table.

The moment they’re in the bedroom he closes the door and presses her against it, pinning her with his hips and sliding his lips over hers. She responds instantly, opening up to him and as long as he lives he will never tire of kissing Emma Swan, the softness of her lips and the taste of her tongue and the way her fingers slide into his hair.

She’s not using her magic but he can feel it humming beneath her fingertips, her jaw dropping as he sweeps into her mouth and groans at the pressure of her hips on his. She rolls up into him, her hand pressing at the small of his back and urging him closer.

Even in her urgency she is careful with him, sliding her mouth to his jaw and nipping there, tantalizing little scrapes of her teeth even as she leans in to whisper, “Are you sure?”

“Bloody hell, _yes,_ ” he moans, reaching down for her thighs and lifting, desperate to have her wrapped around him. She follows easily, her long legs circling his waist as he takes her weight, pressing her hard into the door and rutting slowly into her as she sucks on his bottom lip. The friction throws sparks up his spine and she gasps against his mouth, fisting a hand in his hair and pulling his head back, forcing him to look into her eyes.

She is stunning like this, eyes blown wide and cheeks flushed, and her smile is positively wicked. “Clothes,” she says, her chest heaving against his. “Now.”

He doesn’t let go of her, though, instead spinning and carrying her to the bed, reveling in her delighted little laugh when he drops them both to the mattress, her legs still wrapped around him. She paws at his vest even as he kisses her, wrenching open the buttons and trying to take off his jacket at the same time.

“Patience,” he murmurs into her skin, pressing his lips to hers as gently as possible. It seems to settle her and she stills underneath him, letting her head fall back to the pillows, golden hair haloed around her.

He leans back to appraise her and she raises a challenging eyebrow, the expression so comical he can’t help but laugh. She grins back as he leans in, one more kiss as his hand slides underneath her shirt, his fingertips dragging over the soft skin of her abdomen.

He undresses her slowly, stilling her hands when she tries to do the same to him. “No, love,” he whispers when she’s naked from the waist up, just before taking her nipple into his mouth, smiling at her sharp sigh and the way she arches into him. “Let me take care of you.”

He spends an inordinate amount of time on her breasts, teasing with his hand and lips and tongue until she’s a writhing mess underneath him, her back arching from the mattress as she pulls at his hair. He pulls every sound he can from her, soft sighs and low moans and high-pitched whines that go straight to his cock, but he ignores his own arousal to focus on making her squirm beneath him.

“Oh, thank _God,_ ” she breathes when he finally reaches down and pops the button of her jeans, sliding down the bed to remove her boots and strip the rest of her clothing.

“ _Now_ can I get you naked?” she asks playfully once she’s fully bare to him, propping herself on her elbows to look down at him.

He grins. “Patience,” he repeats, grabbing her ankle and gently pulling her to the edge of the bed. “Come, love. Scoot up.”

Her eyes darken when she realizes what he wants, her tongue darting out over her lips as he helps her to the edge of the mattress, kneeling between her legs and looking up when he feels her nails scratch over his scalp.

He expects her to lie back but she remains sitting upright, spreading her legs wider and gently pulling him to her.

“I want to watch,” she tells him hoarsely, and _bloody hell_ , he wants it too, wants her eyes on him as he tastes her, wants to look up and see the rapture on her face as he drives her to the brink.

She twitches slightly at the first touch of his lips to her inner thigh and he smiles, always so sensitive for him, his Swan. He slides his arm under and around her leg, his hand resting at the top of her thigh when he leans in again, dragging his stubble across the sensitive skin there and feeling her breath hitch.

He lets his mouth hover over where she’s wet and aching for him, lifting his eyes to meet hers while he breathes warm air over her center. He holds himself there, unmoving as he watches her eyes glaze over and her breaths come faster, her hand twitching in his hair as they allow themselves to be spellbound by the moment, tense and erotic and _perfect_.

He keeps his eyes locked to hers when he closes that last inch of space between them, his lips closing over her flesh in a soft, languid kiss.

She gasps as his tongue slides over her, exhaling on a shaky moan as her eyes drift closed and her hand tightens on the back of his head. He loves her like this, pliant and sensual and falling apart around him, but he wants her to _watch_.

He licks a slow stripe up her center before closing his mouth over her clit and sucking hard. She jerks underneath him and her eyes fly open. “ _Fuck_ , Killian,” she gasps, and he can’t resist - he gives her a wink before sucking again, adding a slow roll of his tongue to his ministrations.

She responds with a helpless little moan and lifts her hips to his face, her expression wrecked as she watches him work her over, winding her higher and higher until he feels her ready to snap.

He _missed_ this, missed _Emma_ , the taste of her and the feel of her unraveling by his touch. He has to stop and close his eyes, his mouth still on her, breathing into her skin and savoring the moment while her legs shake on either side of him.

“Don’t stop, _please_ ,” she begs, and it’s enough to pull him out of his reverie, unable to deny her anything. He lifts his gaze to hers once more, and he doesn’t stop.

It doesn’t take much longer, her moans rising in pitch and increasing in frequency as he stops teasing her and sucks at her clit with rhythmic little pulses. His hand tightens on her thigh when her hips start rocking in time with it, pressing herself into his mouth just that little bit harder, chasing her release until he finally gives it to her.

Emma’s head finally falls back as she tenses around him, her hips stuttering as she cries out. He works her through it with his lips and tongue, slow, sweeping strokes that grow lighter in pressure as she comes down. He presses one last kiss to her thigh and looks up, enjoying the delightful view of her breasts as her chest heaves only to smile when she finally drops her head to look down at him.

“Holy _shit_ , Killian,” she laughs, her hands shaking as she combs his hair back from his forehead.

“Oh, we’re not done here, love,” he promises, winking once more and rising up to kiss her. He loves that about her, how she’s always so eager to taste herself on him. Her tongue curls itself around his and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how hard he is for her, no longer able to ignore the ache that threatens to overwhelm him. “Lie back,” he tells her, nodding encouragingly as she shuffles up the bed to stretch out over the mattress, dropping an arm behind her head as she settles in.

He begins to undress quickly and efficiently, slowing only when he realizes how hungrily she’s watching him. She starts toying with her breast as he strips off his vest and divests himself of the hook, and by the time his shirt hits the floor her hand has trailed down between her legs, teasing herself as her eyes sweep over his bare chest.

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he croaks out, and he forgets to go slowly in favor of joining her as quickly as possible.

She grins when he climbs onto the bed, pulling him to her and capturing his mouth before he can say anything else. “Just making sure I’m ready for you,” she murmurs, nipping at his chin. “I think you’ve waited long enough.”

“Aye,” he agrees, shuddering when he settles between her legs, his cock pressing against her thigh in a delicious drag that isn’t nearly enough. Emma watches his face as she takes him in hand, smiling at the sound she pulls from him as her hand slides up-and-down in a quick stroke, her thumb sliding over the tip before guiding him to her.

He can’t stop watching her face as he presses inside, the way her mouth falls open as he sinks into her inch by exquisite inch. His hips stutter against hers as he pushes his way home, and he gasps when she clenches around him, a glorious tight heat that consumes him as his forehead falls to hers.

He couldn’t sooner stop kissing her than he could stop breathing, needing the taste of her in his mouth as he begins to move, slow, deliberate strokes that burn at the base of his spine and radiate outward, setting fire to his nerves with each push inside.

Emma cries out on a particularly hard thrust, her hand gripping at the small of his back as she wraps a leg around his hip and rises to meet him, allowing him to slide just that last bit deeper. He buries his face into her shoulder and loses himself in her, her warmth and clenching hands and ecstatic moans in his ear as they come together again and again.

He lifts his head to look down at her and his heart feels too full, watching her breathless smile as she lifts her hips into his and grips at the back of his neck.

“Emma,” he moans, meeting her lips before dipping his head to growl in her ear, “touch yourself.”

She obeys, and he can feel the instant her fingers hit home, the sudden tight squeeze around him nearly setting him off then and there. He holds on, though, slowing his thrusts and watching her carefully as she works herself up, as _they_ work her up, and it’s only when she comes on a stuttered cry that he allows himself to let go, snapping his hips with renewed force and fucking her through it. She clings to him as she comes down, urging him to join her, and he finally lets himself fall, disappearing into her, brightness on the edge of his vision swallowing up everything but the _feeling_ , ecstasy and rhapsody and _love_.

When he comes back to himself he realizes he’s kissing her, soft and insistent as her hands slide sweetly over his cheeks.

“Hey,” she whispers, breaking away just long enough to speak before pulling him down to her again, “you okay?”

He smiles against her lips, and answers the best way he knows how. “I love you.”

Only later, when they lie together after they’re cleaned up and their skin has cooled, does Killian realize he hasn’t thought about the tether that day. Not once.

* * *

 It takes eleven weeks for Killian to take Henry sailing. Emma joins them but allows them to do most of the work, sitting back and watching them guide the ship with a contented little smile on her face.

It takes eleven weeks for Killian to realize he might be okay, eventually.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! I never expected a simple one-shot to turn into this, but I can't thank you all enough for for your kind comments and feedback. Thank you so much for reading.

Emma watches as Killian slowly pulls himself back together.

She didn’t think it was possible to be any prouder of him. He keeps proving her wrong.

She helps as best she can, and it doesn’t escape her notice that he finally _lets_ her. He doesn’t hide his nightmares anymore, curling away from her silently or slipping from the bed to suffer in silence downstairs. He reaches for her instead, allowing her to draw him tightly into her arms. Sometimes she holds him until his heartbeat slows and he’s able to drift off once again; others his lips will find hers and he’ll drown in her touch, passion pushing away the nightmares as they find solace in a tangle of limbs and sweat, interlocked fingers and mingling breaths.

She almost always accompanies him when he goes sailing now. She doesn’t tell him he’s being cautious or push him to go out by himself, not after he explained what happened to him that day (he knows there’s a phrase for it now, that panic attacks are a thing and he’s trying to come to terms with the fact that it _doesn’t_ make him weak). He’s always at his best out on the water anyway, and she adores watching him work, light and free and easy as the wind whips through his hair and he squints against the sun.

He puts himself on a schedule, too, to keep himself up and moving and engaged - some days patrolling with Emma, some at the library, some at the docks, and even the occasional friendly swordfight with David in the park (an event that draws a bigger and bigger and crowd each time it happens; the betting pool is getting a little out of hand).

Best of all are the date nights, though. Sometimes it’s Chinese takeout and Netflix and others it’s pretty dresses and fancy restaurants. Emma’s favorites are the moonlit sojourns on the _Jolly_ ; it’s where he’s the happiest, and at this point in her life nothing makes her happier than seeing _him_ happy. Her heart aches knowing that he finally gets to have this, at how much he deserves it, at how hard he’s worked to finally enjoy it - and she gets to share it with him.

Emma watches as the light in his eyes gradually shines brighter with each passing day, never more so than when he’s looking at her. She hopes he sees the same when she looks back.

* * *

He catches her off-guard one evening when they’re heading out for dinner, pausing by the door after she’s put on her jacket and raising an eyebrow at her in question.

“What’s _that_ look for?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Swan?”

She tilts her head in confusion, and he rolls his eyes, amused, before lifting his scarf, unworn since they broke the tether, off the little hook by the door.

He hands it to her, an expectant look on his face, and she can’t stop her own grin from breaking out as she drapes it over his shoulders, tugging him in gently as she knots it together.

It had always just been a quick peck before, but his lips are insistent and soft against hers and his hand slides to the small of her back as he pulls her in, drawing it out as he presses in closer, a slow heat coiling at the base of her spine as he leisurely explores her mouth.

She finds her arms draped over his shoulders when he finally pulls away only to come back for another lazy kiss, the low hum in this throat vibrating down the tips of her toes.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she tells him as he smirks against her lips, “but if you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask.”

“Noted,” he tells her with a wink, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before reaching for the door.

The scarf doesn’t really go with the leather jacket, but neither of them care.

* * *

They fall into a comfortable rhythm as the months drift by, patrols and grilled cheese sandwiches, sailing and swordfighting lessons, falling asleep on the couch with open books in their laps. It’s as if the universe has granted them a reprieve from the chaos of Storybrooke, nothing more than the occasional bar fight or teenage delinquent to deal with, and for the first time in Emma’s (and, she knows, Killian’s) life she’s approaching something resembling _settled_.

It’s a strange feeling.

She loves it.

She loves working with Killian a few days a week, loves that he comes with her to Henry’s track meets and cheers louder than anyone, loves that he and her father are really and truly _friends_ now, loves the looks he exchanges with her when her mother forces Tupperware'd leftovers and frozen casseroles on them whenever they leave family dinners.

(They both secretly appreciate it, neither of them being much good in the kitchen.)

She’s pretty sure he loves it, too. She’s never seen him smile so much.

* * *

 It’s a clear, cloudless night on the _Jolly_ out on the open sea. There’s not much light pollution in Storybrooke, but it still takes Emma’s breath away to see how much brighter the stars are out on the water.

She’d never been able to see the Milky Way in the night sky until Killian took her out here. It’s not visible tonight, not with a nearly-full moon bright enough to read a book by, but a moonlit Killian Jones steering his ship is a stunning view all the same.

This wasn’t their original plan for the evening. They’d fully intended on a romantic dinner at the same Italian restaurant they’d gone to for their first date, but they’d hardly stepped out the front door when an unseasonably warm spring breeze swirled around them, ruffling his hair and fluttering the pale blue skirt of her dress.

One raised eyebrow and an answering smile later and they were heading towards the docks without even bothering to change, grabbing takeout on the way.

She’s long since kicked off her shoes, leaning against the mast while she watches him steer. He’s shed his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up and vest unbuttoned, and he throws her a smirk when he realizes she’s staring at him.

“Where are we headed, Captain?”

He shrugs. “East. Just until there’s nothing on the horizon around us but sea.”

Emma glances back to the coast they’ve left behind, the faraway lights there growing fainter by the minute. “Almost there.”

“Aye, almost.”

She makes her way to the railing, leaning on her elbows and breathing in the salt air, and when she looks up it’s easy to understand why Killian loves the ocean so much. The moon on the waves creates an endless sea of flickering lights, almost as stunning as the sky above her, and the world feels too big, like her heart is trying to swell large enough to fill it. It’s calming and exhilarating all at once, and she feels light enough that the breeze might lift her away.

A light shiver runs through her as the wind picks up, the temperature dropping more than she anticipated when she first left the house that evening. She’s about to go searching for Killian’s jacket when she hears him approach behind her, humming when his hand rubs up and down her upper arm as he steps in close.

The heat of him radiates into her back as he slides his arms around her front, his breath hot on her neck. “Shall I keep you warm, then?”

She grins, his words causing her to shiver rather than the weather. “This is good.” She leans into him, sliding her hand over his and basking in the warmth of his skin against hers, closing her eyes on a contented sigh.

“What’s on your mind, love?” His voice is so soft, his breath tickling at her skin.

“Mmm, nothing. I’m just happy.”

She can feel his smile against her cheek, a low chuckle in her ear. “So am I.” His arms tighten around her and they don’t speak for a long while, enjoying the view and the endless sky and the simple pleasure of being wrapped around one another.

“...Emma?”

“Hm?”

He doesn’t respond at first, but his arms release their hold, hand and hook settling at her hip before gently turning her in his arms. The moon casts shadows across his face but his eyes are bright, a beatific smile on his face as he leans in. He doesn’t kiss her like she expects, though, stopping just short as his the tip of his nose drifts over her cheek.

“Marry me.”

Two simple words, soft against her skin and disappearing into the ocean air.

She leans back just enough to look in his eyes, mouth falling open and that was the absolute _last_ thing she expected him to say, she expected him to kiss her, to tell her he loves her, to smirk and flirt and pull her in tight, not stand there with a hopeful smile and love in his eyes and not a hint of hesitation or doubt and -

“Yes.”

It’s the easiest question she’s ever answered.

It’s his turn to be stunned, eyes widening as though he didn’t expect her to answer so quickly, and his smile shifts from disbelieving to joyful and back again. “Yeah?”

Emma’s pretty sure her smile matches his own. “Yeah.”

He does kiss her then, almost awkwardly at first because their grins get in the way but it’s _perfect_ , and she’s on her tiptoes and his hand is sliding into her hair and they calm down enough to kiss properly, slow and loving until their grins force them to part once more.

“I don’t have a ring,” he admits with a laugh as they sway together, too much space between them even though they’re only an inch apart.

“Are you seriously telling me this wasn’t planned? Your ship, the stars, the -”

He’s almost exasperated with himself as he shakes his head. “Bloody hell, _no_ ,” and then they’re both laughing. “I’d been thinking about it. I had plans, and I just…”

“Just what?”

His face softens. “I just couldn’t go another minute without asking you.”

She’s blinking back tears when he kisses her again, her hand finding its way to his heart as he leans into her, long and deep and slow, his hand at her jaw tilting her head just so, his mouth soft and hot against hers.

“What were your plans?” she whispers against his lips.

“Acquiring a ring, for one. And - “ he groans, pressing his forehead to hers. “Henry. Gods above, I’d meant to speak to your boy first.”

“Hey,” she says, taking his face in her hands. “We can talk to Henry together. And I already have a ring.”

He pulls back, realization washing over his features as he looks down at the chain around her neck, the only piece of jewelry she wears these days. She reaches up and unlinks the clasp, sliding Liam’s ring from the chain and holding it in her palm, offering it to him. “Would you mind?”

“Emma, are you - “

“Of course I’m sure.”

He smiles as he takes the ring from her, the curve of his hook reaching under her left palm and lifting it as he gently slides the ring onto her fourth finger. He can’t take his eyes off it, the stone catching the moonlight as he brushes his thumb over her fingers, whisper-soft, finally bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

A delighted laugh bubbles out of her, because of _course_ he would kiss her hand like a knight courting a princess, like the fairy tale character he is, and he raises an eyebrow at her reaction.

“Did I do something funny, love?”

“No,” she assures him, lacing her fingers with his. “This is perfect.”

“Aye,” he agrees, pulling her close once more as her heart threatens to burst. “It is.”

* * *

 Emma thought she’d have to fight with her mother to keep the wedding from spiraling into some embarrassing grand royal affair, but it was… surprisingly easy. She and Killian were prepared to beg to make it happen, but once the words _small_ and _simple_ were spoken, she smiled in understanding (“anything you want, honey”).

(It hasn’t stopped her from forming the world’s most elaborate, meticulously-organized Pinterest account specifically for their big day, but if that’s what keeps her happy, who is Emma to complain?)

She completely refuses a bridal shower - who needs gifts when she and Killian are already settled in their home anyway? - and manages to circumvent the need for bridesmaid’s dresses by not having a wedding party at all. Her mother as Matron of Honor is plenty, her father can walk her down the aisle, and Henry -

\- well, Henry seemed pretty thrilled when he was asked to be Best Man.

She doesn’t even have to bother with shoes, considering they’re being married on the beach (Killian’s eyes had lit up when she suggested it; he pretended to tease her about knowing he’d want a ceremony with his “two great loves, you and sea,” but the softness in his voice gave him away). His only request is that she wear flowers in her hair.

And so with three weeks to the big day, there’s almost nothing left to be done.

Almost.

She comes home a bit later than usual one evening, and for the first time since he proposed she feels a bit of anxiety settling into her as she closes the door behind her. Killian meets her in the hall as usual, a quick kiss to her lips before taking her coat (he really is always a gentleman).

“Long day?” he asks as he hangs up her jacket.

“No, the usual. I just had an errand to run on the way home. Is Henry - ?”

“At his friend’s for the night, remember?”

“Just making sure. C’mere, I’ve got something to show you.” She holds up a small shopping bag and leads him to the couch.

“What’s this, then?” he asks as they settle next to each other, and his question is answered when she reaches into the bag and produces two small, black velvet boxes. “They came in?”

“Yep.” Emma opens them both, and for a moment they just sit and admire. They’re nothing particularly fancy, both in burnished silver, hers a simple band that matches Liam’s ring and his slightly thicker with a small red stone in the center, a less-gaudy version of his current jewelry. They’d looked at others, gold and platinum and diamonds, but somehow they all felt _wrong_. “Wanna try yours on?”

He looks surprised. “Is there a need?” They’d agreed to wear their rings around their necks, the simple chains already chosen and sitting neatly in a box on their dresser. She hadn’t missed the look in his eyes when they’d discussed it - she forgets, sometimes, about him not having a left hand, with him being so confident and capable most of the time.

She nudges his shoulder, taking his hand in hers and removing the ring currently on his fourth finger. “Humor me?”

“As you wish.” The words always come with a grin now that he’s seen the movie.

She takes her time sliding the ring over his finger, caressing his palm once she’s done. “Looks good.”

She can’t stop staring it, her thoughts drifting as her fingers gently trace his.

He turns his hand over to grip hers. “What’s the matter, love?”

Of course he noticed. _Open book_.

“It’s nothing,” she says quietly.

“It’s not nothing.” He leans in, his nose caressing her cheek. “Tell me.”

She sighs, reaching to the coffee table to pick up her own ring, turning it over in her hands before sliding it over her finger, flush with Liam’s ring and a perfect fit. “I, um… I had a plan. It was supposed to be a wedding present for you.”

“You know I don’t need any - “

“It was an enchantment,” she interrupts, plowing through before she loses her nerve. “On our rings, something for when we both wore them. I read through so many books to try and find one,” she laughs, unable to look at him. “And I _found_ it. It wouldn’t be exactly like the tether, we wouldn’t share physical feelings. Just emotions.”

She doesn’t miss his quick intake of breath.

“And it would have been a surprise, right? We both try on our rings and the connection’s suddenly there again, and we - I dunno, I just wanted…”

“Emma.” His hand covers both of hers, warm and soft and she’s suddenly able to be still, to relax under his touch.

“I couldn’t do it,” she admits, finally meeting his eyes.

His hand tightens over hers and his mouth drops open, but no words form.

“I just… I still feel guilty about it. Making the tether in the first place and then having to take it away, and I wanted to give a little piece of it back to you, you know? And I wanted it too.” She shrugs and shakes her head. “But I picked up the rings today and I was going to do the enchantment, and - Killian, what the hell is _wrong_ with me?”

“What? I don’t - Emma, I don’t understand.”

“We figured out how to be happy without the tether. We don’t need it. And here I am looking to bring something like it back into our lives without even asking you first.”

Understanding comes over his features then, his eyes softening, but it does little to calm her down.

“It nearly _broke_ you last time. I know it’s been hard for you, God, you’ve been through so much _shit_ , and I’m so proud of you, Killian, but I don’t know if you want this. I can do it, I know how, but I just...”

His face is nearly unreadable, and Emma has no idea if she’s digging her own grave, but she continues anyway.

“Just… tell me. What do you want?”

He looks at her for a long, considering moment, his hand leaving hers and settling at her cheek, fingers a light caress on her skin.

“I’ve told you before.” His lips turn up, his smile a near thing but not quite complete, as though he’s too overwhelmed to get there. “It’s you, Emma. No tether. No enchantments. Just you.”

She can’t do anything but kiss him then, lean in and savor the taste of him on her lips as she straddles his lap, pressing close and letting his warmth overwhelm her as his tongue curls around hers, his hand gentle at her hip and the tip of his hook lightly tracing over her thigh.

“I love you,” she breathes into his mouth, something she tells him every day but it’s suddenly _more_ like this.

“And I you.” His words are nearly lost against her skin and she’s on _fire_ with the way his hand can’t keep still at her back, his hips pressing up into hers and his mouth nipping and teasing at her lips.

“Upstairs?” she asks, the word rising in pitch at the end as he rolls his hips into hers, an enticing bit of friction that blooms heat between her thighs.

“No, I want you right here,” he murmurs against her throat and she shivers against him at the way his words vibrate through her, feeling him grow hard and heavy underneath her.

She leans back when he lifts the hem of her shirt, raising her arms as he slowly peels the garment away. He looks overwhelmed now for a different reason, and she’ll never get over the way he looks at her as they slowly undress each other, heat and lust and devotion in his gaze as he maps every inch of her skin as it’s revealed to him, fingertips and tongue and the point of his hook dragging across her flesh as they strip each other bare.

She’s back in his lap as they shed the last of their clothing, hook and brace tossed aside as she settles across his thighs, him dipping his head to nuzzle at her collarbone and bringing his teeth into the equation when she pushes forward, trapping his cock between them.

“You’re such a bloody tease,” he groans when she rolls her hips upward.

She chuckles, reaching up and tugging gently at his hair, forcing him to look up at her. “Like this?” she asks, rising up on her thighs and rocking her hips into him, dragging her clit over his cock.

His gasp is choked-out and he can’t help but laugh. “Just like that,” he agrees, rocking his hips up and they find a slow, tantalizing rhythm against each other, him dragging hot and heavy over the most sensitive part of her, warm and slick as they watch each other, faces close but not quite touching, sharing the same air.

She could come like this, she thinks, the hot slide of him against her hitting her just right on every stroke, but she wants him inside her, wants to watch him fall apart underneath her. She rises up on her knees, reaching down to guide him to her.

His eyes flutter closed as she sinks down, a broken moan escaping his lips as his hand tightens at her hip, his ring pressing into her skin. “So good, Emma,” he sighs, opening his eyes as she slides down that final inch, her full weight on him as he surges up, his mouth slanting over hers.

She moans against his lips when he reaches between them, his thumb caressing and stroking over her clit as they rock their hips together, not quite thrusting but a lazy roll of their bodies as her pleasure builds, filled to the hilt while his clever fingers pull her nerves taut, every delicious sensation settling at the place where their bodies are joined and radiating outward.

“Do you really need more than this, love?” he groans into her skin, hot and low, and her hips stutter at his words. “Do you need magic to make this better? To make it _more_?” He thrusts up hard on the last word.

“No,” she gasps, her hand tightening in his hair as she lifts her hips and sinks down, again and again as he rises up to meet her. “Just this, _God_ , I love you, don’t stop - “

He doesn’t, driving into her with sure, steady strokes that drag deliciously at her insides while his hand works her up, rolling and teasing and she can’t help but clench around him. He groans at the sensation but doesn’t stop, watching her with dark eyes as he brings her up, up, pressing in and in and in until she falls.

She can’t move as the hot rush ripples through her but he works her through it, drawing it out with slick thrusts while she flutters around him, and she knows he’s close when his rhythm shortens, becoming hotter and quicker and she does her best to meet him halfway, to roll her hips down as he pushes up, his moans coming higher and faster as he chases her over that cliff.

His head drops back as he comes, his features going gorgeously slack as he pulses inside of her. She collapses against him, lips pressed to his throat and fingers combing through his hair as he comes down, their hearts hammering in their chests.

He smiles lazily when he lifts his head, his hand warm against her back as they press their foreheads together. “You were right, Emma.”

“Hmm?”

“We don’t need it.” His lips are soft against hers as he reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together, the silver of their rings glinting in the light. “We’ve never needed it.”

Her smile is soft against his and there really is something to it, the simple, effortless love in his eyes and his hand in hers. She doesn’t need magic to know it, or to feel it, the press of his skin and the lightness in her heart strong and steadfast and _real_.

* * *

On the day of their wedding they forego the necklaces, choosing instead to wear their rings on their right hands.

No tether. No enchantments. Just them.


End file.
